On The Pick
A Memoir by Henry Doktorski
Hrishikesh dasa plays harmonium in the Bahulaban Temple.
Part One: Introduction
I served my spiritual master, the ISKCON-approved guru His Divine Grace Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada, out on The Pick full-time from October 1979 until September 1985 (with a two-month break from January to March 1980 when I served as Temple President of ISKCON Pittsburgh), and then part full-time and part part-time at least until 1988. The Pick is devotee jargon for fundraising out in shopping center, sports stadium and rock concert arena parking lots, and other places, to collect Laksmi (the Goddess of Fortune commonly known as “money”).
At first I was highly unsuccessful at this trade. Approaching strangers and trying to coax them to give me a dollar or two for charity was incredibly difficult for me. I felt I was a failure. But after a year or two, I discovered the secret to collecting big, and began collecting $1,000 per week. Then $2,000, then $3,000 per week. One year (I think 1984) I got 30,000 people to give me a $5.00 donation. I raised $150,000 for New Vrindaban that year. My total contribution towards the New Vrindaban coffer could have been $500,000. Perhaps more.
I was known as a maharathi, a Sanskrit word for a great warrior. My picking partner dubbed me “The Professor,” and a few years later, Devamrita Swami, the New Vrindaban temple president and sankirtan leader, started calling me “The Prince of the Pick.”
We pickers were respected as warriors for Krishna, rescuing Laksmi from the evil (or at least ignorant) karmis (non-devotees) to reunite with her Lord, Master and Husband, Vishnu, where she belongs. I mostly enjoyed my service. It was exciting at times, often austere, sometimes painful, but it had its own pleasures and perks, which I will attempt to describe in this essay.
The New Vrindaban West Virginia Hare Krishna commune.
In the mid-1980s, the Hare Krishna people were a prominent source of pride (and chagrin) for many West Virginia residents. Prabhupada’s Palace of Gold, an ornate memorial shrine constructed to honor His Divine Grace A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada (1896-1977), the Founder/Acharya of the International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON), was dedicated on September 2, 1979, and propelled the New Vrindaban Community into national and international media attention. So many tourists came to see the gold-leafed marble and concrete palace that in 1982 it became the third-most-popular tourist attraction in West Virginia, next to the Wheeling Jamboree country music festival and the Ramada Inn in South Charleston. In addition, New Vrindaban employed 187 local West Virginians. We were the second-largest employer in Marshall County, second only to the Consolidated Coal Company.
Festival at Prabhupada’s Palace of Gold (c. 1982).
Prabhupada’s Palace illuminated at night (undated).
In 1985, a United States congressman from West Virginia visited New Vrindaban and delivered a speech at the Sila Ropana festival, the inauguration of the proposed Great Temple of Understanding, which at the time was billed as the largest South Indian-style temple to be built in the last 1,000 years. This seven-year wave of good fortune at New Vrindaban was largely funded by tens-of-thousands of hours of work by New Vrindaban’s traveling fundraisers, hereafter referred to as “pickers.”
The New Vrindaban Hare Krishna Community in Marshall County West Virginia was founded in March 1968 by two apostate disciples of Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada: Kirtanananda Swami (Keith Gordon Ham) and Hayagriva dasa (Howard Morton Wheeler). Originally the two attempted to create an ashram in competition with ISKCON, but after a few months without success, they apologized to Prabhupada and returned to ISKCON. Thereafter, New Vrindaban (named by Prabhupada after the holy town in India where Krishna displayed his childhood pastimes some thousands of years ago) became ISKCON’s first farm community, and a source of pride (and later embarrassment) for ISKCON.
Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada’s branch of the Hare Krishna movement, ISKCON (incorporated in 1966 in New York City), was based on a much-older religion/yoga process called Gaudiya Vaishnavism, or Bhakti Yoga, inaugurated over 500 years ago by the Medieval saint and mystic, Chaitanya Mahaprabhu (1486-1534), who is regarded by his followers as an incarnation of the Supreme Personality of Godhead. Gaudiya Vaishnavas revere Lord Sri Krishna as the supreme being and absolute truth, and recommend chanting the Hare Krishna mahamantra—“Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare; Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare” as the preferred process to help one achieve unadulterated love of God (Krishna). The initiated devotee vows to chant 1,728 mantras daily, and to refrain from sinful activities such as 1) eating meat, fish or eggs; 2) engaging in illicit sex; 3) gambling, and 4) taking intoxicants, including alcohol, cannabis, tea and other drinks which contain caffeine.
Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada—with his servant Hari Sari and Kirtanananda Swami, and other disciples—visits his Palace-under-construction (June 1976).
New Vrindaban was an important ISKCON center in the 1970s and 1980s and at its peak numbered perhaps 500 residents. The mission of the community, as outlined by Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, was/is to:
1) Establish and promote the simple, agrarian Krishna conscious lifestyle, including cow protection,
2) create a place of pilgrimage in the West by constructing seven temples,
3) train up a class of brahmin teachers by educating boys at the boarding school, and
4) establish a society based on varnashram dharma, the Indian caste system which divides humankind into four social orders (brahmin, ksatriya, vaisya and sudra) and four occupational orders (sannyasa, vanaprastha, grhasta and brahmachari).
Henry becomes Hrishikesh dasa
I lived at the New Vrindaban Hare Krishna community from August 1978 until May 1994. When I joined the community I had just received three months earlier a Bachelor of Arts degree in music. I had studied music for most of my life. In 1963, as a seven-year-old child, I showed some musical talent so my parents enrolled me in the studio of one local New Jersey accordion teacher.
In high school I discovered classical music after joining the school choir. Shortly after, I began serious piano studies and later was awarded a scholarship as a piano major at a small Midwestern liberal arts college. There, along with music, I developed a keen interest in Indian spirituality and the counterculture. I grew my hair long; I heard the former Harvard University Professor-turned-yogi, Baba Ram Dass, lecture at the University of Kansas; I was initiated into Transcendental Meditation for a $35 fee and silently chanted my secret mantra twice a day; I decided to become a vegetarian and even told my piano professor, much to his chagrin, that after finishing graduate school I would join a spiritual commune somewhere and devote my life to the search for the Absolute Truth. I acquired a packet of LSD from a classmate and kept it in the kitchen freezer, intending to expand my consciousness, but never used it because I feared, as a pianist, that it might ruin my music career if I had a “flashback” during a concert performance and I lost my motor control and coordination.
Senior Piano Recital, Park College, Parkville Missouri (April 16, 1978).
After graduating from college in May 1978, I briefly visited the Maharishi University in Fairfield, Iowa, to check out the scene, but was sorely disappointed; the students there dressed in conservative shirts and ties and wore short hair cuts. I thought they looked a little like fundamentalist Christians. I was looking for something more radical; something less mainstream; something more austere. By chance or by the design of a higher power, on the way home from Kansas City to New Jersey in July 1978, I visited a former high school buddy who that year happened to have a summer job in Wheeling, West Virginia. While sitting in his barren, hot and stuffy apartment with nothing to do, he suggested, “Why don’t we visit the nearby Hare Krishna community; they’re building a palace for their founder. I’ve been there before; it’s really cool!”
We spent the afternoon touring New Vrindaban and I was impressed. I found a community of spiritual seekers who seemed to practice what they preached: renunciation. The single men slept for only six hours each night in sleeping bags on the floor of an ashram with twenty or thirty others; they took ice cold baths (there was no hot water)—without even using soap (as far as I could see)—in the communal bath house. The toilets were only holes in the concrete floor (Indian style) without even doors on the front of the stalls! [Endnote 1]
The New Vrindaban devotees chanted Sanskrit mantras for two hours daily, usually attended two temple services daily (and sometimes three on Sundays), worked at least eight hours daily for Krishna without remuneration, ate only vegetarian food offered to Krishna, and spoke nothing except topics about Krishna or Krishna’s service.
One of the devotees remained perpetually silent except for the words “Hare Krishna” which he would sometimes unexpectedly and loudly shout. [Endnote 2] Another devotee stubbornly refused to wear socks or shoes, even in winter. His feet were heavily calloused and pitted with deep cracks which reminded me of the canals on the surface of Mars. [Endnote 3] These people obviously were serious about minimizing bodily needs. They were tough; like the Marines. Hare Krishna seemed to me to be the elite “Green Berets” of all the Indian spiritual movements. And the philosophy appeared undefeatable. This is what I wanted: a challenge.
About a month later, I visited the community again during a drive to North Texas State University (where I had been accepted as a piano major in their graduate music school) and met Kirtanananda Swami for the first time. I was immediately drawn to the warmth and kindness which seemed to radiate from him. He appeared to express genuine concern for me and I listened to him speak as a respectful son listens to a wise and compassionate father. Maharaja gave me a personal tour of the community and urged me to stay at New Vrindaban and focus on my spiritual life, instead of continuing my journey to Texas. I argued with Maharaja; yes, I was interested in learning more about Krishna consciousness, but I also had no intention of abandoning my music studies. Why could I not do both? After some time in intense discussion, Kirtanananda finally forced me to admit defeat by paraphrasing a verse from the Bible, “What is the use of becoming the greatest musician in the world if you lose your immortal soul?”
I recognized the value of pursuing spiritual studies, and decided on the spot that it wouldn’t hurt to put graduate school on hold for a few months and spend the rest of the semester testing the Krishna consciousness Bhakti-Yoga program under Maharaja’s tutelage. I liked chanting the mahamantra, I liked a vegetarian diet, and I liked sleeping on the floor and living simply in a community of like-minded souls whose motto was “Plain Living, High Thinking.” After all, I thought, I could always resume music studies again five months later in January, if I decided living at the Hare Krishna commune was not to my liking.
After a week or two living in the men’s ashram at Bahulaban, I was invited to move up to the brahmachari ashram at the isolated Vrindaban farm. I worked at the Palace-under-construction, gold leafing and stenciling and painting artwork on the ceiling on the perimeter of the kirtan hall. I chanted sixteen rounds daily, attended the temple programs, ate only Krishna prasadam, strictly followed the regulative principles and suffered terribly.
Going “cold turkey.”
My first months at New Vrindaban were incredibly difficult, due in large part to withdrawal from the object of my affections: classical music. During college I had performed with symphony orchestras, sang Handel’s Messiah with a huge 280-voice choir, and even performed a leading role in a concert performance of Puccini’s opera Madame Butterfly. I had composed original music for musical theater productions and directed pit orchestras. But that was all over now. Finis.
From hearing Bhagavad-gita and Srimad-bhagavatam classes I technically understood that most music was simply sense gratification: a highly pleasurable activity which distracted the soul from God and entrapped the living entity in Maya’s illusory energy. But God! how difficult it was for me to shed my addiction to classical music! My intellect insisted that I should stay at New Vrindaban, shed my material desires and develop my dormant love for God, but my heart sorely missed the thrill of composing, performing and listening to classical music; the excitement, the glamour, the acclaim, the intellectual satisfaction and the rapturous beauty of the passionate melodies, harmonies and rhythms which had captivated my consciousness for so many years.
Building Prabhupada a palace.
I clearly remember working at Prabhupada’s Palace-under-construction, probably in October 1978, doing some solitary gold leafing in the central kirtan hall, crying out in despair from the pain of my mental and emotional anguish and mournfully singing in a loud voice the mahamantra (great chant for deliverance): “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare; Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare” to the tune of the plaintive Jaya Radha Madhava melody which was sung every morning before the daily Bhagavatam class. I put my entire heart and soul into that chanting; I was suffering so much. I begged Krishna, “Please help me! Please save me! Tear out my material desires from my tortured heart and heal it with unconditional ecstatic love for you!”
Kirtanananda Swami at Prabhupada’s Palace-under-construction. The author appears in the background applying gold leaf to a Palace Kirtan Hall column capital (Philadelphia Inquirer photo, c. October 1978)
Sometime shortly after, apparently by the grace of guru and Krishna, I acquired a taste for devotional service—seemingly overnight—and my mental tempest dissipated like the thick New Vrindaban early-morning fog which is burned off by the rising sun. I had a change of heart (a conversion experience), and decided maybe there was something of value worth pursuing at New Vrindaban. I dived in head first and didn’t look back. I became infected with the Brijabasi spirit and faithfully served Kirtanananda Swami’s mission at New Vrindaban for more than fifteen years. I became emotionally attached to my spiritual master and performed (sometimes) great austerities to please my master by my service.
I requested initiation from Kirtanananda Maharaja: “I would like to become your disciple and spend the rest of my life serving Krishna here at New Vrindaban.” Maharaja beamed joyfully and exclaimed, “Jaya! That’s what I like: someone who comes and does not run away.” (“Jaya” or “Jai” is a Sanskrit exclamation designating approval, often translated as “victory.”) I was initiated on March 13th (Gaura Purnima), 1979, and received the name Hrishikesh dasa (servant of Krishna, who is the master of the senses).
As I had sacrificed a great deal (a potentially promising career in music) to live at New Vrindaban, I decided to give the process a fair chance: I faithfully chanted sixteen rounds daily, strictly followed the four regulative principles, scrupulously attended all the required spiritual programs, resided with similarly-minded godbrothers at the remote Old Vrindaban brahmachari (celibate male student) ashram, and worked to the best of my abilities to help build a ornate memorial shrine for the late founder and acharya of the International Society for Krishna Consciousness: A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada (1896-1977) who had passed away only nine months earlier.
The author applies gold leaf to the Palace dome (Summer 1979). Photo enhanced and colorized by AI.
The Pick.
In October 1979 I worked a big event in Chicago, “The Pope Pick,” and excelled at selling buttons with the image of Pope John Paul II. This was my first time collecting money for New Vrindaban, and I was, amazingly, the top men’s collector at the event. Thereafter I was sent to the ISKCON temple in Cleveland, Ohio, to learn how to distribute Prabhupada’s books. At first I was terrible. But I doggedly continued in this service, as my spiritual master said sankirtan is the highest service.
Somehow or other, I think in the summer or autumn of 1980, I suddenly discovered how to do this service of collecting money, and a year later, in December 1981 at the Christmas party following the Christmas marathon, I won an award for being the top men’s collector that year. I enjoyed the praise I received from my spiritual master, my godbrothers and the other New Vrindaban residents.
I excelled at this service of picking for several years, but, beginning in 1984, I began to develop some physical weaknesses which greatly reduced my stamina and collections. I was unable to regularly do big on The Pick anymore because my body had lost much strength, I believe, partly from the stress of the service itself as well as our customary abuse of and disregard for the body’s needs. Now I will tell the story about my life on The Pick.
Part Two: Helping to Raise Money for Krishna.
The Candle Factory.
The once-profitable New Vrindaban Spiritual Sky incense business—which funded the purchase of properties such as Madhuban, Bahulaban and Guruban—folded during the mid-1970s, and the income from drug smuggling and dealing—which funded much of the construction supplies for Prabhupada’s Palace—ended soon after the September 1979 Palace dedication. (For more about unconventional sources of funding for New Vrindaban, see the author’s books, Gold, Guns and God, Vols. 2 and 3.) A new source of funding was needed.
Candles were a big money maker in 1978 and 1979. New Vrindaban established a candle factory at Bahulaban where residents dipped and carved elaborate and colorful decorative candles which sankirtan devotees sold in malls or on the road. Beginning in September 1978, I worked up at the Palace-under-construction, mostly gold leafing the interior and exterior. In October, I began painting the perimeter ceiling of the Kirtan Hall, a project I finally finished in March 1979. But around December 3, 1978, I was assigned to work for a few weeks in the New Vrindaban “Candle Factory” at Bahulaban. My service was dipping candles in 55-gallon barrels of molten wax.
As I recall, we began with a plain, generic commercial candle, purchased cheaply in bulk. The candle factory workers dipped the candle a dozen times in one barrel of colored wax to thicken the candle, then we’d take the candle over to another barrel with wax of a different color, and dip into the new barrel. We continued this process maybe a half dozen times, then passed the bulk candle over to the candle carvers, who sat at tables with sharp knives. These carvers sliced the soft, warm wax and folded the slices to create fantastical patterns with bright kaleidoscopic colors.
An ornamental candle similar to those manufactured at New Vrindaban.
When the carvers finished a candle, it was then passed to the packers, who placed each candle in a corrugated cardboard box with dividers, so the candles would not get damaged during transport. Finally, the traveling sankirtan devotees picked up boxes of candles when they visited New Vrindaban, and then went back out on the road to sell the hand-made New Vrindaban product. Candles were a big seller during the Christmas season, as shoppers often look for unique and exciting gifts for family and friends.
In 1980 as I recall, the Candle Factory moved up to the Palace. It was located in the rooms behind the Palace which were in future to become the Palace Restaurant and Gift Store. Unfortunately, during the winter of 1980, the Candle Factory burned to the ground. The flames shot a hundred feet into the air as thousands of gallons of wax blazed. Even the specially-ordered incredibly-long steel-reinforced concrete beams which supported the roof (which cost many tens of thousands of dollars and were shipped in by dozens of specially-trained tractor-trailer semi-truck drivers) were destroyed. One disciple remembered:
Fires have broken out at the cost of months of great effort on the part of yourself and your devotees, such as with the first Palace Restaurant. I remember your reaction at that time. Many of us were nervous that you would manifest another kind of heat and burn us all to a crisp, but you just looked and said, “Well, I guess Krishna didn’t like that restaurant too much!” And then you said to us: “Just see how this ordinary little fire has melted concrete and steel girders. And yet our hearts are not melting in the greatest fire of serving Krishna and calling his holy names; we are so hard-hearted.” [Endnote 4]
After the blaze at the candle factory at the Palace, the devastation was complete. A new source of income was needed, and traveling sankirtan evolved to fill the void. Soon New Vrindaban pickers would generate millions of dollars in income per year. But back to the winter of 1978.
During the 1978 Christmas marathon I dipped candles in huge barrels of colored molten wax at the Bahulaban candle factory. When the Christmas marathon was over, and the sankirtan devotees returned to the farm, I returned to my service of painting the perimeter of the ceiling of the Kirtan Hall at Prabhupada’s Palace-under-construction.
The six-month Palace Marathon, from March to September 1979 was intense. I will tell some stories from that time later. The Palace Dedication Festival during Labor Day Weekend 1979 was a grand and blessed event which I will also describe at another time.
The author plays harmonium during kirtan at one of the Palace festivals (c. early 1980s). Jalakolahali plays mrdanga drum and an unidentified black devotee plays tamboura, while Dayavira chants on his beads.
After the Palace Dedication Festival, I began serving as a teacher at the Nandagram Boys School. I taught music there for about a month. I lived at the Vrindaban Brahmachari Ashram, and walked across the ridge to the Nandagram school, about a mile distant. Every day I returned to the Vrindaban Farm. I enjoyed teaching the boys. I had no discipline problems. I think they respected me, and I was fair to them.
The Pope Pick.
On October 5, 1979, I worked the “Pope Pick” at Grant Park on the shore of Lake Michigan in Chicago, Illinois. New Vrindaban sent out dozens of collectors in vans to Des Moines, Chicago, Philadelphia, Washington D. C., New York City and Boston—the cities on the pope’s first United States tour—to hawk buttons and other paraphernalia displaying a photo or image of Pope John Paul II to the massive crowds who came to attend Mass presided by the pope. Tens, if not a hundred thousand dollars were raised for New Vrindaban to help complete Prabhupada’s Palace of Gold, which had been dedicated only one month earlier.
Pope John Paul II was born Karol Józef Wojtyła in Wadowice, Poland in 1920. He rose through the ranks of the Roman Catholic hierarchy, becoming a priest, a bishop, the Archbishop of Kraków and then a cardinal. He was elected pope in October 1978, becoming one of the youngest popes in history. John Paul II was pope for nearly 27 years, until his death in 2005. Nine years later, he was officially canonized as a saint by the Catholic Church. He was the favorite pope in my family, as we are both Roman Catholic and Polish.
John Paul II in Chicago.
The Pope Pick was my first time ever collecting money for New Vrindaban. As noted earlier in this essay, during my first year at New Vrindaban I helped build Prabhupada’s Palace, and after the Palace dedication on September 2nd I served as a music teacher for the boys at Nandagram School for a month. Now, I looked forward to the exciting experience of collecting money for Krishna. I rode in the back of a van with a bunch of others from New Vrindaban to Chicago the previous evening (October 4th). We slept in sleeping bags on the crowded floor of the van.
As I recall, after an eight-hour drive, we arrived at Grant Park in Chicago early in the morning. Dharmatma dasa (Dennis Gorrick) was there with his own van to coordinate the New Vrindaban pickers. He provided us with shoulder bags containing hundreds of pope buttons. Some other pickers had bars of soap carved in the likeness of John Paul II, which people could hang up in their shower stall. We called the item “Pope on a Rope.”
Around 8 a.m., the crowd started pouring in, and we began picking, offering our buttons for sale. As I recall, we asked $2 per button. The buttons cost maybe twenty-five cents, if that. We were vendors hawking our wares: “Get your Pope buttons here! Pope buttons, only two dollars!” People in the crowd raised their hands, indicating that they wanted a button, and we’d move through the crowd, passing out buttons and collecting money. Some people bought four or five buttons. Some bought ten. Many, many times, I ran out of buttons and ran back to Dharmatma’s van, turning in my Laksmi and grabbing another shoulder bag filled with buttons.
A button with Pope John Paul II’s image.
I discovered that the best way to make money was to find a fresh crowd; people who hadn’t yet seen the buttons. After we’d been picking for four or five or six hours, it was not easy finding a fresh crowd, but somehow I managed to find them.
The climax of the day was an afternoon open-air Mass at the Petrillo Band Shell at Grant Park. At 3 p.m., church bells rang throughout the archdiocese, signaling the entrance procession for the Mass that was celebrated by the Holy Father and 350 bishops from all over North America. The weather remained sunny and seasonable.
The pope was a half an hour late, and by the time he arrived, an estimated 1.2 million people had amassed in the 319-acre park for the two-hour-long Mass. John Paul II gave Holy Eucharist to 150 people chosen from the six Vicariates of the Chicago Archdiocese, while more than 600 priests and deacons administered the Eucharist to the full crowd.
During Mass, naturally as a respectful Catholic boy, I did not hawk my buttons loudly. If I did, the people would have hated me for disturbing their Holy Mass. But I did walk quietly through the crowd waving over my head a button in one hand, and with my other hand, displayed two fingers which indicated the number “two dollars.” I still made some sales in this way.
The crowd was estimated to be 1.2 million.
After the Mass, many in the crowd chanted “John Paul Two, We Love You!” The pope responded with “John Paul Two, He Loves You!”
When the Mass ended, around 5 or 6 p. m., the crowds began dispersing. Of course it took several hours for 1.2 million people to get back to the taxi stands, bus stops, subway stations, and their parked cars. I found a good spot where many thousands of people had to pass and hawked my buttons again, this time only for $1. “Last chance to get your Pope buttons! Only one dollar!” I think after a while I dropped the price to “Two for a dollar!”
The sun set in Chicago that day at 6:30 p. m., but we kept working, as the crowd still numbered in the thousands. Finally around 10 p. m., everyone had left, except for a handful of park maintenance employees and us New Vrindaban devotees. Dharmatma’s helpers were counting the Laksmi scores.
I was quite surprised when Dharmatma announced, “Hrishikesh is the biggest collector of the day, with 1,643 Laksmi points!” In sixteen hours, I averaged more than $100 per hour. I even beat New Vrindaban’s biggest picker on the men’s parties: Muktakesh dasa (Ronald Burstein) by a mere $20.
Muktakesh was a big book distributor and a big picker for the last five years for Buffalo ISKCON and New Vrindaban. But now his big ego was bruised. He was so pissed he had been beaten by a rookie, and he told me so to my face, that he grabbed some buttons and ran out into the night in a futile attempt to make 21 more dollars and retain his title. He returned fifteen minutes later, disappointed, and he reluctantly admitted that I had taken away his crown.
After this, my days on “The Farm” were numbered. In a few months, I would become a full time picker, a position I maintained and (mostly) enjoyed for about seven years.
Trying to sell Prabhupada’s books in Cleveland.
On or around October 7, 1979, perhaps only a couple days after the Pope Pick, New Vrindaban authorities shipped me to the Cleveland, Ohio ISKCON temple, the New Vrindaban satellite center at 15720 Euclid Avenue in the East Cleveland ghetto. The temple president, as I recall, was Sundarakar dasa Adhikari ACBSP (Steven Fitzpatrick). The deities on the altar were Radha Muralidhara. Janakanath dasa ACBSP (Anthony Gierz) served as pujari and cook.
Tapahpunja dasa Brahmachari ACBSP (Terry Sheldon) was the resident sankirtan expert, and he attempted to train me up how to distribute Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada’s books, like the small paperback Easy Journey to Other Planets, in the parking lots of Kmart department stores and Kroger supermarkets in various small towns in North Eastern Ohio.
Tapahpunja Swami (Terry Sheldon)
Just a few days earlier, on October 5th, I proved my prowess as a collector at the Pope Pick in Chicago, my first ever sankirtan event, where I collected $1,643 by selling buttons displaying the image of Pope John Paul II. New Vrindaban authorities suspected I might be able to learn to collect big on regular sankirtan in the parking lots of Ohio shopping malls and rock concert stadiums, but I proved myself a failure. I was terrible. I could hardly get a donation, let alone sell a book. This service was incredibly difficult for me. In fact, it was frightening.
It was one thing to sell a button which everyone wanted; and an entirely different thing to sell a book (with an image on the cover of an emaciated yogi) which no one wanted. Not to mention the police officers and security guards who constantly told me to move on or get arrested, as Tapahpunja never bothered to apply for a solicitor’s permit.
The cover of Easy Journey to Other Planets by Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada.
My first rock concert, and first arrest.
On October 27, 1979, the American rock band, the Eagles, performed the first of a two-night sold-out stand at the Richfield Coliseum—a 20,000-seat indoor arena between Cleveland and Akron, Ohio. This was the first leg of the Eagles’ “The Long Run” tour. I was there before the concert in the parking lot, trying (without much success) to get donations for Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada’s paperback book, Easy Journey to Other Planets.
The Eagles
After a short time a security guard questioned me, then asked me to come with him to the security office where I was charged with trespassing. My mentor, Tapahpunja, bailed me out and asked me what happened. I said a security guard stopped me and asked me if I was going to the concert. I said, “No. I’m just here to distribute books.” Then the security guard arrested me for trespassing.
Tapahpunja rebuked me, “You fool! You should have said that you were going to the concert! Then he would have simply told you to stop distributing books, and you wouldn’t have been arrested!” Tapahpunja conveniently forgot the fact that he had not given me any prior instruction on what to tell the security guards if I was questioned. How could I possibly know what to say?
I felt bad after his chastisement, but the pained look on my face must have touched Tapahpunja’s heart, for then he encouraged me, “That’s all right. You are a brahmin, and a brahmin is always truthful.”
Richfield Coliseum
My first taste of traveling sankirtan.
On or around November 7, 1979, while stationed at the Cleveland ISKCON temple, my mentor, Tapahpunja dasa Brahmachari, took me out on traveling sankirtan for an entire week, my first time on the road.
In November 1979, Tapahpunja and I left Cleveland ISKCON in a beat-up old van with a couple cases of Prabhupada’s book, Easy Journey to Other Planets. Tapahpunja drove south towards Akron where we worked the parking lots of Kroger supermarkets and Kmart department stores. Although this was extremely difficult work for me—trying to get a donation from a housewife on a budget for a book with a picture of an emaciated yogi on the cover—I trudged along and gave it my best, as I was told this service was extremely pleasing to Krishna.
One time we coincidentally met another New Vrindaban traveling sankirtan party: my godbrothers Damodar (Allen White) and Jagannath Mishra (James Bulsa). Those two guys took to the pick like ducks to water. When we arrived at a supermarket parking lot, Damodar and Mish jumped out of the van like paratroopers jumping out of a military airplane going to battle to rescue Laksmi from the karmis. I, on the other hand, was petrified and I sat in the van chanting my rounds.
After a few hours, after the store manager came out and told us to leave, Tapahpunja drove us to another parking lot in another part of town. Late in the day, we stopped distributing books and drove to a Kmart parking lot where we spent the night sleeping in our sleeping bags on the floor of the van. But first we used a small propane camp stove to heat up a quart of milk in a steel pot, which we drank before spreading our sleeping bags on the floor of the van and taking rest.
Kmart parking lots were good places to park overnight, as there were usually a half-dozen or more other vehicles parked overnight and we wouldn’t draw any attention to ourselves. Truck stop parking lots were also a good place to spend the night. If we parked at other locations during the night, sometimes the police would wake us up and tell us to move on.
In the morning, Tapahpunja drove our van to a partly-seclude place, such as against a brick wall, where we opened the side doors of the van, stripped to our kaupins (a one-piece loin cloth underwear common in India) and bathed using a gallon of water in an old plastic milk jug. We had filled the jugs with water the previous day at a gas station. First Tapahpunja bathed, to show me how to do it.
Bathing is very important to Krishna devotees. At New Vrindaban we take a cold shower every morning before dressing in a clean dhoti and kurta to attend the morning program at the temple. Tapahpunja demonstrated: first he poured a couple cups of water on his shaved head, and let the water flow down his body. Then he grabbed a bar of soap, and lathered himself. He untied his loincloth in the rear, and washed out his kaupins, while the cloth still covered the front of his body, as devotees are taught to be modest (never nude).
Then Tapahpunja poured the remainder of the gallon of water on his head and rinsed off all the soap. When the jug was empty, he dried himself with an Indian towel, changed into a fresh kaupin, and got dressed in his karmi clothes. I followed suit. I found this life of the traveling picker quite pleasant, as I am an Eagle Scout and I love camping out in the woods. However, camping in a Kmart parking lot is not as romantic as camping in the woods, but I think you get the idea.
After we freshened up, Tapahpunja put up a picture of Radha Vrindaban Chandra, the presiding deities of New Vrindaban, on the dashboard, and we chanted our sixteen rounds, which took about two hours. If the outside temperature was uncomfortably cold, we chanted inside our van, but most of the time we went outside and chanted while slowly pacing back and forth. Often Tapahpunja drove to a nearby park which was quiet and beautiful; a peaceful place to chant our rounds.
My personal photograph of the presiding deities of New Vrindaban: Radha-Vrindaban Chandra, on their altar at Bahulaban.
After our rounds were completed, we had a short Morning Program, chanting the Samsara Prayers, Prayers to Lord Nrsimhadeva, and the Jaya Radha Madhava Prayers, using a small pair of kartals (brass cymbals) for musical accompaniment. Tapahpunja then read a verse from Srimad-Bhagavatam and spoke a bit about the verse.
We had our own little kitchen in the van, with a cutting board, knives and serving spoons, and a Coleman propane camp stove. Tapahpunja chopped up the vegetables, and prepared a pot of kitchari. Every day we cooked and ate the same dish: kitchari (the word means “mixture” in Hindi), a traditional Indian dish typically made with mung dal (split mung beans) and white basmati rice, flavored with herbs and spices (we used cumin seeds, dried chili peppers, turmeric powder, diced ginger root and asafoetida powder fried in ghee), and cooked with various vegetables. Some say that kitchari is the ultimate comfort food.
Asafoetida powder (hing) is made from the dried latex (gum) exuded from the tap root of several species of perennial herbs from the carrot family. Turmeric powder, made from the dried rhizomes of a plant in the ginger family, has a warm, bitter, black pepper-like flavor and earthy, mustard-like aroma. It is often used in Ayurvedic medicine.
Where did we get our vegetables? Tapahpunja liked to save Krishna’s money (we were taught not to spend money on ourselves) so instead of purchasing vegetables at the supermarket, each morning we drove our van behind the supermarket where Tapahpunja went “Dumpster Diving,” to search for vegetables which were discarded by the produce managers, as the vegetables were beginning to wilt and were unsellable. In a minute or two Tapahpunja would return to the van with an armload of wilted, but still edible produce. Dumpster diving was lots of fun. Occasionally, when we were unable to find a public restroom, we’d do our duty (morning duties we called it, passing stool) in the dumpster.
A bowl of kitchari.
After breakfast, around 11 a. m., we hit the parking lots in a courageous attempt to distribute Prabhupada’s paperback book, Easy Journey to Other Planets. Tapahpunja appeared to enjoy walking up to people, getting their attention, conversing with them, showing them the book, and asking for a donation. I did not. I’m not a shy person, but it was very difficult for me to approach all these people and get rejected dozens, if not hundreds of times a day. Sometimes I’d just sit in the van and chant on my beads, too “fried” from working the parking lots without success.
Once in a while in the morning while preparing a pot of kitchari, Tapahpunja would take a cup or two of wheat flour, add water, roll the dough into cylinder shapes about 6 inches in length, and deep-fry them in a pot of hot ghee. I thought these breadsticks were delicious, and around 4 or 5 p. m., we’d take a break and snack on the bread sticks.
On Sunday, for an afternoon dessert treat, we’d split a 48-ounce container of Breyers ice cream. Tapahpunja said that Breyers was the best brand. Eating such prodigious amounts of ice cream gave us nasty flatulence a few hours later, but it was well worth it; a real creamy and sugary treat. Eating ice cream was usually the high point of my week. We rarely got to eat such rich food at New Vrindaban, except during the weekly Sunday feast.
Then we hit the parking lots again until sunset. Before bed, we drank a glass of hot milk.
A 48-oz. container of Breyers ice cream.
During this week of distributing Prabhupada’s books on traveling sankirtan, we passed through Eastern and Southern Ohio, visiting small towns along the Ohio River and working the supermarket parking lots. We eventually landed in Louisville, Kentucky, about 300 miles from Cleveland.
Tapahpunja told me Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada predicted World War III was coming soon, and because Prabhupada knew Krishna, he knew everything: past, present and future. Tapahpunja played for me a cassette tape during which Prabhupada claimed, “Your country, America, is very much eager to kill these Communists. And the Communists are also very eager. So very soon there will be war. . . . Preaching will be very nice after the war when both of them, especially Russia, will be finished.” [Endnote 5]
Tapahpunja was dedicated to Bhaktipada’s mission and he believed New Vrindaban would become the saving grace of civilization when the nuclear bombs started falling from the sky. This, he claimed, would destroy human society as we know it. During such a nuclear winter, the government would break down and anarchy would prevail. In such a catastrophic scenario, he believed, hundreds of thousands of displaced people would take shelter at ISKCON farm communities, such as New Vrindaban, where the economy was (in theory, at least) based on land and cows.
Every day Tapahpunja studied the Rand McNally road atlas to note our position in relation to the Ohio River. “In the event of a nuclear war,” Tapahpunja told me, “the best way to get back to New Vrindaban would be to follow the Ohio River upstream to Moundsville, and then cut across country by foot.” After a week or so on the road, we turned back and returned to Cleveland ISKCON. I never imagined at the time that I’d be living out of a van for the next five or six years.
Simulation of an atomic bomb explosion.
My second rock concert, and second arrest.
On December 2, 1979, the British rock band “The Who” performed at Pittsburgh’s iconic Civic Arena, the world’s first retractable-roof major sports/concert arena. Barry Paris, a Pittsburgh Post-Gazette reviewer, declared it the “best show of the year.”
The Who in concert (undated)
New Vrindaban naturally sent a contingent of sankirtan devotees, including myself (at the time a rookie), to sell books and collect donations from concert attendees. We worked the parking lots and sidewalks. Some of the Dharmettes (the female collectors who worked under the supervision of Dharmatma) snuck inside the massive domed structure and worked the aisles and hallways inside.
Pittsburgh Civic Arena
After a relatively short time, I found myself behind bars with about a dozen other devotees in a stone building which resembled a Medieval fortress: the Allegheny County Jail. I believe we were charged with trespassing. We chanted kirtan behind bars in the holding cell for a couple hours until we were processed and released.
Allegheny County Jail
We all considered our treatment by the police a blatant crime against Sanatan Dharma, the eternal religion. Senior devotees told me that Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada had, when informed of efforts by law-enforcement agents to restrict his disciples from distributing his books, declared, “Police are pigs. Maya’s pigs.”
Senior devotees tell me, Prabhupada said “Police are pigs. Maya’s pigs.”
Kirtanananda Maharaja gives me a choice.
My temperament was not at all conducive to this life of panhandling. I suffered so much out on the road. Hardly anybody gave me any money. I was a big failure. The rejection I received from hundreds of potential donors one after another in the parking lots was a greater austerity than taking ice cold showers.
On December 3, 1979, after our release from the Allegheny County Jail, Tapahpunja and I returned to New Vrindaban for some R and R (rest and relaxation). I needed a break. For two months I had quietly suffered on The Pick. While visiting New Vrindaban, I liked to hang out at Bhaktipada’s house (a brick one-story home right across from the Palace) and sleep at night in my sleeping bag on the floor in his basement, along with other brahmacharis. Bhaktipada always allowed his sankirtan collectors to hang around him during our monthly festivals.
Once Bhaktipada asked me, “How’s life on the road?” I glumly replied, “Horrible. I can’t make any money. I feel useless. This service is very difficult for me.” He smiled and said, “That’s all right. I never was much good at it either!” I thought this was very funny, as I had read that a pure devotee was expert in everything.
Then he quietly suggested, “Would you like to return to the farm? You can teach music at the gurukula.”
I remained silent for a moment, turning it over in my mind. I had taught music at Nandagram for about a month in September, after the Palace dedication. I enjoyed working with the boys and they seemed to respect me as a teacher. Bhaktipada had once talked to me about starting a children’s choir and a gurukula band, and eventually a symphony orchestra and opera company. Teaching at Nandagram might be a good opportunity for me.
Bhaktipada’s proposal was tempting, but I clearly understood from hearing his classes and darshans (conversations, usually in question and answer format) that he considered traveling sankirtan to be the highest service: “The money is the honey.” I wanted to become a dear confidential disciple. Finally, hoping to please him, I said, “No. I’ll stick it out. Maybe I’ll get the hang of it someday.” Bhaktipada was pleased and affectionately rubbed my shaved head. I was in total bliss.
I go out on the Candle Pick
During the first week of December 1979, I went out on a solo money-collecting mission during the 1979 Christmas Marathon to sell the candles manufactured at New Vrindaban. In the morning I drove a small car belonging to the community to the shopping mall in Uniontown, Pennsylvania, about an hour-and-a-half drive. I set up a small folding card table in a prominent place inside the mall, covered the table with a table cloth, set up my candles, and hawked my wares. In the evening, I’d pack everything into the car, drive back to New Vrindaban, and give my collections to my sankirtan leader, Tapahpunja. I enjoyed it. I was performing valuable service for Radha Vrindaban Chandra, the presiding deities of New Vrindaban, and helping to provide funding for construction projects. I explained in Gold, Guns and God, Vol. 4:
Candle Sankirtan
During December of 1979, my sankirtan leader, Tapahpunja dasa Brahmachari (Terry Sheldon), gave me a beat-up car, a card table and a few boxes of candles, and sent me to Uniontown, Pennsylvania—about ninety miles east from New Vrindaban—to set up a candle table at the Uniontown Mall. He told me if a security guard asked me what I was doing to tell him that our school—Nandagram Boys School—received permission from the mall manager to set up a table. He gave me a cheap-looking ID card with my name and photo on it.
My candle table was a good money maker. Our New Vrindaban candles were big and beautiful and people liked them. I sometimes made $500 per day which I promptly delivered to Tapahpunja each night when I returned home. I was happy to help make money to complete the landscaping and gardens for Prabhupada’s Palace of Gold and other New Vrindaban projects.
I think it was Christmas Eve when the security guard approached me again; but this time he was with the mall manager, who was furious. He had no idea who I was, but he knew from the crowd of shoppers at my table that I was making money hand-over-fist without paying for a legitimate vendor’s booth. They called the police and the police questioned me, but they let me go after confiscating my candles. Tapahpunja later told me, “You should have given them a few free candles. They would have given you less trouble.”
The Uniontown Mall
I serve as Temple President for Pittsburgh ISKCON
On or around January 10, 1980, I moved to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania on the order of the New Vrindaban temple authorities, and began serving as the Temple President of Pittsburgh ISKCON at 1112 North Negley Avenue. At the time as I recall, Pittsburgh ISKCON was essentially little more than a New Vrindaban sankirtan outpost. Weekend Warriors (money collectors) from New Vrindaban, while working the area, stayed overnight in the ashram at the Pittsburgh temple.
In the past, the temple building had been a Polish dance hall. Many wedding receptions had been celebrated there. At times, wedding guests drank too much alcohol, and got in fights with members of the bride’s or groom’s family members, and (according to the late Naranarayan Visvakarma dasa—Nathan Baruch Zakheim—who lived there in 1970) so many wedding guests died in the hall that the neighbors began calling the building the “Bucket of Blood.” He said when he lived there, he heard ghosts at night. I, on the other hand, never heard anything unusual at night. I supposed Naranarayan’s chanting drove the ghosts away.
About a half-dozen residents lived in the Pittsburgh temple: myself, Dundee (who, as I recall, had a regular nine-to-five job somewhere) and his heavy-set Spanish-speaking wife and infant daughter. Dundee, when he had spare time from work and family, helped around the temple as a handyman and janitor.
We also had a pujari/cook who worshiped the big 51-inch-tall Jagannath (carved by Naranarayan about ten years earlier from a big New Vrindaban log), Subhadra and Balarama deities. If I remember correctly, our pujari/cook was Hladini devi dasi (Linda Jury), who was exceptionally devoted to Lord Jagannath. Eight years later, in 1988, she accepted sannyasa from Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada, and became known as Hrishikesh Maharaja, a fired-up preacher. A couple years later, she left Bhaktipada’s service, and moved to Africa under the direction of the ISKCON guru Bhakti Tirtha Swami.
Altar of Balabhadra, Subhadra, and Jagannath, at New Vrindaban (c. 1983).
Hladini died in 1990, along with several other devotees, from gunshot wounds during an execution by a firing squad during the Second Liberian Civil War. Another devotee who served with Hladini in Africa, Mahavegavati dasi (later known as Dasi Radha Govinda Swami), claimed that Bhakti Tirtha Swami purposely sent Hladini to Liberia to her death because he didn’t want ISKCON to discover that he and Hladini had a clandestine romantic relationship. For more about Hladini, see Remembering Hladini Devi Mataji.
A very quiet, mousy lady, Krishna Mayi devi dasi, also lived at Pittsburgh ISKCON. She left the temple every morning, took a city bus to a different Pittsburgh neighborhood which had a small commercial district or downtown, and quietly approached people inside stores and shops without saying a word. She handed them a tiny American flag on a toothpick, with a little strip of paper proclaiming: “Made by deaf and dumb people,” or something similar. People gave her a dollar or some coins, which she brought back to the temple treasury. Not much money; maybe $100 or less per day. Of course she was not deaf and dumb, but hey! we needed money to preach and whatever she collected was going to Krishna and help build New Vrindaban into a glorious place of pilgrimage in the West.
Every day or two while serving as Temple President of Pittsburgh ISKCON, I’d get a telephone call from a devotee who was a patient/inmate at Western Psych (Western Psychiatric Hospital) in Pittsburgh. His name was Mahayogi dasa, a Prabhupada disciple initiated in Pittsburgh in 1971. One of my New Vrindaban godbrothers said, “Mahayogi was a crazy man from Pittsburgh. I never spoke to him, but I saw him a couple times at New Vrindaban.”
I don’t know why he was locked up in the psychiatric ward, but he was a devotee at heart and he liked to associate with like-minded people. We chatted for five or ten minutes, and then I had to make up an excuse why I had to go. “It’s time for Bhoga Aroti!” “Someone’s at the door.” “Good talking to you Prabhu, but I have an appointment now.” After I left Pittsburgh ISKCON I never heard from him again.
A test.
One night, perhaps 10 p. m., a sankirtan mother came in late after a hard day doing The Pick. She was by herself; she had no sankirtan partner, for some reason. Usually pickers traveled with a buddy. She was a Prabhupada disciple, Muralidhara’s wife. Muralidhara (Mark Missman) was regarded by many as ISKCON’s best artist at the time; he lived at New Vrindaban and produced spectacular paintings for Prabhupada’s Palace and the temple. He also received two commissions to produce enormous historic murals for the Wheeling Civic Center.
She was about 26 years old, I was 24. Her name was Yogamaya devi dasi. I had seen her from time to time at New Vrindaban, but we never had occasion (or need) to talk. I thought she was quite attractive and pretty and energetic and sexy with a slender waist, but on this particular evening she was distraught after a very bad day on The Pick. She needed a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.
No one else was awake except for me, so recognizing my duty to my spiritual master and Krishna, despite the fact that I was a pukka brahmachari and not supposed to associate with women, especially hotties like her, I stepped up to the plate for my service.
We sat on a step of the stairway leading from the temple room to the ashram upstairs, and Yogamaya poured her heart out about the extremely terrible and stressful day with profuse tears dripping from her eyes, smearing her mascara. I consoled her, and preached to her, that we should try to be steady in happiness and distress, heat and cold, pleasure and pain, and big collections and small collections. Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.
My natural inclination was to put my arms around her and give her hugs and affectionate petting, as any father would do for a distraught teary-eyed young daughter. However, as I was a strict brahmachari at the time (I followed the regulations totally), I refrained from this natural expression of compassion and remained inches away without touching her. It wasn’t easy for me.
Most normal men I think are naturally protective of women, especially a gorgeous, distraught, crying woman, and she desperately needed (or so I thought) some masculine attention, but I kept my distance, although, to be frank, I would have appreciated some intimate female association myself.
During this time of trial for me, I derived inspiration by thinking of the great Gaudiya-Vaishnava saint Haridasa Thakur. He was born c. 1450 into a Muslim family, but converted to Vaishnavism at an early age. As a young man, a most beautiful and seductive woman named Lakshahira, reputed by some to be an incarnation of the goddess Maya Devi herself, came to him and tried to tempt him to break his vows of celibacy, but Haridasa passed the test due to his unflinching devotion to Lord Krishna.
“While chanting the Hare Krishna mantra in Benapola, Haridasa Thakur was personally tested by Mayadevi herself.” Image and caption from Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada’s Sri Caitanya-Caritamrita, Adi-lila, Volume 2, Plate 9.
After perhaps ten intense minutes, when I finished offering counsel to the beautiful and distraught sankirtan woman, she calmed down, her tears stopped, she thanked me, and she went upstairs into the women’s ashram.
I guess I passed the test. I don’t know if Yogamaya was actually distraught, or was she ordered by the New Vrindaban administration to try to tempt me into illicit activities to test my determination? In any case, soon after, I was back on the road again.
For more about Haridasa Thakur, see Gaudiya History.
St. Patrick’s Day in Savannah, Georgia.
On March 17, 1980, I did The Pick at the 156th annual St. Patrick’s Day parade in Savannah, Georgia.
The first St. Patrick’s Day procession in Savannah Georgia was celebrated on March 17, 1813. It was a private affair and consisted of Irish immigrants who walked from a riverfront hotel to the Savannah Irish Roman Catholic church. The event was organized by The Hibernian Society of Savannah, founded one year earlier for the purpose of offering aid and assistance to needy Irish immigrants. Eleven years later, The Hibernian Society hosted their first parade open to the public on St. Patrick’s Day (March 17, 1824).
Today, the Savannah St. Patrick’s Day parade is the second largest in the United States, second only to New York City’s parade. The celebrations include prominent displays of the color green, eating and drinking, religious observances, and numerous parades. The merriment of the festival is aided by a very lenient public drinking policy which allows open alcoholic beverages every day of the year in the Landmark Historic District.
St. Patrick’s Day in Savannah, Georgia.
Wherever large numbers of people with spending money congregate, you can bet the Hare Krishnas will also be there to try to get their share. At the time (January-March 1980), I served as the temple president of Pittsburgh ISKCON, which was basically not much more than a New Vrindaban sankirtan outpost. We only had about a half-dozen permanent residents living there to serve the giant Jagannath, Subhadra and Balaram deities and maintain the building, but on Friday nights without fail, a dozen or more Weekend Warriors arrived from New Vrindaban to do The Pick in the Pittsburgh shopping centers, shopping malls, concert halls and sporting stadiums. These devotees, usually householders with young children, left New Vrindaban Friday mornings and returned Sunday evenings. Sometimes they might collect $1,000 per weekend.
As I recall, the New Vrindaban administration must have decided that they would profit more if they sent me out on The Pick instead of having me serve as the ISKCON Pittsburgh temple president, and so on Monday, March 16th, a van from Cleveland ISKCON picked me up at the Negley Avenue temple. The Cleveland temple president, Sundarakar dasa ACBSP (Stephen Fitzpatrick) drove the van. I knew him, as I had lived at Cleveland ISKCON in October and November 1979 when Tapahpunja dasa Brahmachari attempted to train me up to distribute Prabhupada’s books in supermarket parking lots and rock concert arenas. I noticed Sundarakar had a long, red scar across his forehead, but I never asked him how he got it. [Endnote 6]
Sundarakar (Stephen Fitzpatrick) at Palace Press. Photo from Brijabasi Spirit (March 1984).
Inside the Cleveland ISKCON van were maybe a half dozen pickers, mostly women. Sundarakar drove us 700 miles straight through the night. At the time, all-night drives were not uncommon, although the pickers’ accident rate was so dismal New Vrindaban could only get automobile insurance from Lloyd’s of London at ridiculously high rates. No American insurance company would insure us. We arrived in Savannah early in the morning and found a parking spot near a park along the Savannah River near the Landmark Historic District.
The Savannah St. Patrick’s Day parade.
The parade was enormous, a massive city-wide event with roughly 350 marching units, including bands and floats and dancers. The attendance was also enormous: between 300,000 and 400,000 people came from hundreds of miles distant to watch the festivities, drink Irish beer and taste Irish delicacies from the vendors’ booths and city restaurants.
I don’t remember what paraphernalia we used. Perhaps we sold St. Patrick’s Day buttons, or perhaps green carnations which we pinned on peoples’ shirts. We worked all day and into the night, as many thousands of people partied in the Historic Landmark District. I don’t remember how much Laksmi I collected, but it wasn’t very much. Perhaps a few hundred dollars.
I found that people here were not as eager to purchase our buttons and carnations as the people I met at the Chicago Pope Pick six months earlier. New Vrindaban’s women pickers (known as Dharmettes) were the big collectors that day. They were very expert at pinning carnations on single men and getting them to give (sometimes large) donations.
Srila Bhaktipada, Srila Ramesvara Maharaja, Dharmatma dasa, and several of the Dharmettes attend a darshan held in Bhaktipada’s backyard during Srila Ramesvara’s visit to New Vrindaban (Summer 1984). Image from Brijabasi Spirit (Fall 1984 issue).
Mother Maharha devi dasi.
One of the Dharmettes was Mother Maharha (Mary St. John). She joined ISKCON in 1970 and moved to New Vrindaban in 1971. Here I quote a few paragraphs from Gold, Guns and God, Vol. 4 about her:
Maharha became New Vrindaban’s top collector, a position she held for many years. She claimed to have collected over two million dollars for the community during her decade-long sankirtan career. She gave the best years of her life (23-34) to Bhaktipada and Dharmatma. She was known for her enthusiasm and austerities.
She worked the annual St. Patrick’s Day parade and festival at Savannah, Georgia. This event starts early in the day and ends late at night, as the entire waterfront area along the Savannah River becomes a big party with perhaps a hundred thousand visitors. I worked this event in March 1980.
Unfortunately, Maharha contracted a nasty case of diarrhea. She lost a lot of fluids and became weak. However, The Pick was so huge that she decided she couldn’t afford the time off to search out and visit the ladies room every few minutes, so she decided that she would simply ignore her bodily functions and let nature take its course while she continued to work and hit up partygoers. She may have thought that since there was so much vomit on the ground from drunken revelers that probably no one would notice the smell of diarrhea dripping down her legs.
Because of her austerity, she once again proved herself as New Vrindaban’s top collector. Dharmatma was so pleased that he spoke to all the sankirtan devotees about Maharha’s superhuman feat and praised her devotion as a shining example for the rest of us.
However, Maharha couldn’t keep up this breakneck pace forever, and developed severe physical and emotional disabilities. In order to get some rest and heal, she left New Vrindaban. I remember the big January 1985 sankirtan festival which followed the 1984 Christmas marathon. Our biggest collector, Maharha, was missing and we inquired about her. Dharmatma told us, “She lost her faith; she became envious. She couldn’t appreciate the great mercy Bhaktipada gave her, and has become poisoned by Maya. Better to forget her and continue with our own service for Krishna.”
Attraction for the opposite sex: danger for a brahmachari.
Back to March 1980 in Savannah Georgia: I remember the return drive back to Pittsburgh. I was one of the few men on the party and I got to sit in the passenger seat of the van, while the women sat in the back. One mataji about two or three years older than me (I was 24) offered me a paper plate with maha prasadam. I accepted. Her name was Sumati devi dasi ACBSP (Carol C. Bruck). Although she was not what most people might consider an exceptionally gorgeous woman, she did have a slender figure and a submissive demeanor, and my mind went crazy.
I practically fell in love with her. I couldn’t stop thinking of her. I hadn’t had any sex with a women for more than a year and a half, since I joined New Vrindaban in August 1978, as I was very serious about my vow of celibacy and the other rules. I had not masturbated once during this entire time, although I had nocturnal emissions two or three times a week. But temple authorities told me that was okay, as they were involuntary ejaculations, so I still got the spiritual and material benefits of celibacy. (Today I think they were bullshitting me.)
Anyway, when a man has been starved from food for a long time, even an old dry chapati looks and tastes like a sumptuous feast. Fortunately, I never pursued the matter (who knows, maybe she didn’t even like me), and soon after, I was given a sankirtan van filled with broken candles from the previous Christmas marathon, and ordered to go out on The Pick with my godbrother Dasarath dasa (David Van Pelt), and not return until we had sold all the candles. That was how I became a full-time New Vrindaban traveling sankirtan picker. I remained on The Pick nonstop for more than five years, only returning to “The Farm” once a month for three days.
Selling candles on the road.
On or around March 20, 1980, soon after returning from the Savannah Georgia St. Patrick's Day Parade, New Vrindaban authorities demoted me from my service as Pittsburgh ISKCON Temple President, and gave me a van filled with broken candles left over from the December 1979 Christmas marathon. Most of them wouldn’t even burn.
They gave me a traveling sankirtan partner, my recently-initiated godbrother Dasarath dasa (David Van Pelt from the small town of Greenfield in Western Ohio). Dasa received diksa at a 1979 Christmas Day fire sacrifice at New Vrindaban less than three months earlier. Temple authorities told us to get out and sell those candles and not to return until they were all sold. Dasa and I eagerly accepted the challenge.
Dasa and I traveled north about 150 miles and worked Allegheny College in Meadville, Pennsylvania, and Mercyhurst College, a Roman Catholic college in Erie founded in 1926 by by the Sisters of Mercy. Then we headed into Upstate New York and worked colleges such as Binghamton University and Saint Bonaventure College, a Roman Catholic college in Olean, New York, founded in 1858 by Franciscan monks. We set up tables on and off campus and hawked our candles to students for a dollar or spare change. We worked the dormitories at night. During those days it was easy to get into the dorms because security was light; the doors were never locked.
A contemporary college-age Casanova
I distinctly remember one room in a college co-ed dorm. I don’t remember which college. On the outside of the door was posted a naughty cartoon, probably from a porn magazine. A handwritten note under the cartoon advertised, “Adventurous girls: inquire within.”
“What was this about?” I wondered?
I knocked on the door and a deep male voice answered, “Come in.” I opened the unlocked door and entered. The room was dark except for a lava lamp on the desk. The smell of incense permeated the air, and I heard quiet romantic soft rock music coming from the stereo speakers. But I didn’t see anyone in the room.
Just then, I heard the male voice speak from behind a curtain on the upper bunk of a bunk bed, and a female voice giggled, also from behind the curtain. I then understood what the sign on his door was all about: he was looking for sex partners amongst the female students, and it looked like his advertising effort was attracting inquisitive customers.
Although I couldn’t see him or his partner, I gave him my pitch about collecting money for needy children, and he told me, “Take a dollar from my wallet. It’s in my pants pocket hanging over the chair.” I took a dollar from his wallet, placed a broken candle next to the lava lamp, thanked him for his contribution, and I left the room, leaving him and his female partner to continue whatever it was they were doing behind the curtain. I was impressed by his boldness, and I wished I could have been so bold when I was a college student two years earlier!
Sometimes campus security or local police caught up with us and told us to pack up and leave, whereupon we promptly went to another area on campus or another town. It took us a month to sell all our candles and we returned home to New Vrindaban triumphantly in April with a nearly-empty van and a couple thousand dollars.
Dasa and I had fun; we enjoyed our time on The Pick together. We were a great team. We enjoyed the life of traveling, seeing new towns and countryside, meeting hundreds of new people each day, cooking on a propane camp stove, sleeping inside our van, bathing with a one-gallon water jug outside our van every morning, and we even (mostly) enjoyed running and hiding and sometimes getting caught and apologizing to security guards and police. “Oh, you mean we’re not supposed to do that? Soliciting without a permit? Oh my gosh, officer, we’re so sorry! We don’t want to get in trouble. Will you please let us go with a warning?”
We knew that soliciting without a permit was a minor offense and not to be taken seriously. We didn’t bother to even try to apply for permits, because they were too limiting and we made more money working without them. We had a carefree life. We mostly had a good time on The Pick.
An ornamental candle similar to those manufactured at New Vrindaban
Sticker Sankirtan.
In May 1980, Dasa and I went back on the road. Instead of candles, we had a few boxes of stickers. Tapahpunja had designed the stickers specifically for the New Vrindaban pickers to distribute in shopping center parking lots. He designed a sticker for Ohio, and stickers for Indiana, Kentucky, West Virginia and Pennsylvania, states in Kirtanananda Swami’s GBC zone. Each sticker was about six inches square, and had images of a map of the state, the name of the state, the state bird, the state flag, and notable landmarks. As I recall, the sticker for Ohio featured the state nickname: “The Buckeye State,” the state bird: “the Northern Cardinal” the state flower: “the Scarlet Carnation,” etc.
A bumper sticker similar to the sticker designed by Tapahpunja.
We carried identification badges with our name, photo, and the words “Nandagram Boys School,” the name of the New Vrindaban gurukula. We worked mostly parking lots at supermarket and department stores. I found this work to be very difficult. It was one thing to approach a housewife who was loading groceries into her car. They were easy targets. Stationary targets, not moving targets. But it was another thing to give her a bumper sticker and get a donation.
Fortunately for me, my sankirtan partner, Dasarath, was a superb salesman. He had an easy-going way with people and knack for saying the right words to gain their trust and get a donation. When we arrived at a parking lot first thing in the morning, I’d follow him around for ten or fifteen minutes and see how he was approaching people, what he was saying to them. What was his mantra, or script.
Then I’d go off on my own, hit up people in another part of the parking lot, and say the same things that Dasa was saying. Only then I’d make any money. This was extremely important, to get the right mantra, because the mood changes from town to town, from day to day, even from parking lot to parking lot. A mantra which worked on a Tuesday morning in a particular town and neighborhood, might not work in another town, or even in another parking lot in the same town later in the day, in the evening for instance. Dasa was a genius in sales. In fact, decades later, after we both left New Vrindaban, he got a job as a car salesman at a used car lot.
Dasa also discovered a clever way to sneak into concert arenas without buying a ticket. After the parking lot pick was finished, he’d go back to our van and grab a white dress shirt hanging on a wire coat hanger. He’d walk over to the arena’s entrance marked “Employees Only,” where a security guard would be sitting. Dasa would run right through the entrance holding his white shirt and exclaim with great anxiety, “I’m late! My boss is gonna kill me!” without even stopping. The security guard assumed Dasa was an usher, and didn’t bother to try to stop him.
Dasa and I made a good team. I served as the party leader; I read the map in the morning and figured out where we were going to work during the day. I got so good at map reading, that when we came to a new town, a place we had never been before, I could look at the map and point out where the big shopping plazas were located. My accuracy was nine out of ten. Perhaps this is why Dasa started calling me “The Professor.”
At this time, we were making perhaps $1,000 per week. On Monday mornings, we’d stop at a bank, step up to the teller and ask to purchase a cashier’s. check. Then we’d pass the teller a couple thousand dollars, mostly in small bills. After she gave us our cashier’s check made out to ISKCON New Mathura Vrindaban (if memory serves correctly, this was the actual legal name of the New Vrindaban corporation), we put the check into an envelope addressed to Dennis Gorrick (Dharmatma dasa), our sankirtan leader at New Vrindaban, which we dropped into the nearest U. S. Post Office box. This was our once-a-week ritual.
Bhaktipada speaks to Sudhanu, Rsi Kumar, Dasarath, the author, Radhanath, and Dharmatma in the living room of Bhaktipada’s house across from Prabhupada’s Palace (c. 1981).
Radhanath questioned by police.
Around this time, 1980 or so, Bhaktipada ordered a beloved, long-time New Vrindaban resident, Radhanath dasa Brahmachari (initiated February 11, 1973), to go out on the pick. Radhanath was the talk of the town among the sankirtan devotees. Although I never had the opportunity to go out on the road with him, I heard many stories about his picking skills, or rather, lack of.
One time, Radhanath went into a bank on a Monday morning with a couple thousand dollars in small bills to purchase a cashier’s check. However, Radhanath was dressed in very shabby clothes. He looked like a homeless person. The teller became suspicious, and quietly mentioned her concerns to the bank manager, who called the police. Radhanath was questioned by the police, “Where did you get all this money? Where are you from,” etc. The police also searched their van.
Radhanath showed the police the stickers and said he and his partners were members of the New Vrindaban Hare Krishna Community in West Virginia, and they were collecting money for their boy’s school. They police were satisfied and let them go, but warned them, “No soliciting without a permit in our town, and if we catch you soliciting, you’ll find yourself in jail.” Radhanath and his partner wisely drove to the next county before they resumed picking.
After a few months on sticker sankirtan, Bhaktipada called Radhanath back to the farm. It seemed whenever Radhanath joined a traveling party, the party’s collections decreased significantly. He was like a third wheel; a superfluous person on the party. Radhanath’s partners claimed that Radhanath always told them stories about Lord Chaitanya and Lord Krishna, and they enjoyed hearing the very detailed and enlivening pastimes so much that they always got out late in the day. Radhanath’s temperament was obviously not suited to doing big on the pick. A couple years later, Bhaktipada forced Radhanath to take sannyasa, and sent him on the road again, this time to establish vegetarian cooking classes and preaching centers at colleges and universities in West Virginia, Pennsylvania and Ohio.
Radhanath (undated).
May 18, 1980: On this date in history, Mt. St. Helens in Washington State erupts and darkens the sky over much of the earth with ash. One of our traveling pickers, Ajeya dasa (Alfred Tarantino, later known as Adi Purusha Swami), a Prabhupada disciple initiated at New Vrindaban in October 1974, spoke to me during our next New Vrindaban Sankirtan Festival. He told me he was driving from Seattle back to New Vrindaban on the day of the blast. That night, he parked his vehicle in a rest area along Interstate 90 near Lolo National Forest in Montana, about 400 miles from the volcano.
Bhaktipada always enjoyed the company of his sankirtan devotees when they returned to “The Farm” for the monthly three-day sankirtan festivals. Ajeya is smiling at bottom left.
This photo was taken in the living room of Bhaktipada’s house across from Prabhupada’s Palace. On the left we see: Damodar, Nityodita, Ajeya and two others, probably Bala Krishna dasa and Tapahpunja dasa. On the right are Siksastaka and Dasarath. Photo from Bhaktipada’s Vyasa Puja book (September 6, 1982).
Cantors Adi Purusha Swami and Chaitanya devi dasi lead the singing, accompanied by the City of God Temple Orchestra (c. 1990). Photograph by Richard N. Côté.
Members of the orchestra in this photo include the author at the organ console, Good Hope on the violin and Dutiful Rama on the bass accordion. Sacipita (James Prins) sits behind the organ console.
When Ajeya awoke in the morning, he was a bit disoriented. He felt he had gotten a good night’s sleep, and he thought the sun should be up, but the sky was still pitch dark. He lay around in his sleeping bag, which he had placed on top of a picnic table in the rest area, and eventually looked at his watch. It was 8 am. He was shocked, as the sun was supposed to rise an hour earlier!
He got out of his sleeping back, and he noticed a layer of ash covering his bag (and face). What was going on? He walked to the parking area and talked to a truck driver sitting in the cab of his truck. “Why is is so dark?”
The truck driver responded, “Haven’t you heard? Mt. Saint Helens in Washington State blew up yesterday!” The sky downwind from the volcano remained dark for days.
Mt. St. Helens
The Iran hostage crisis.
On November 4, 1979, sixty-six Americans, including diplomats and other civilian personnel, were taken hostage at the United States Embassy in Tehran, with 52 of them being held until January 20, 1981. The incident occurred after the Muslim Student Followers of the Imam’s Line stormed and occupied the building in the months following the Iranian Revolution. With support from Ruhollah Khomeini, who had led the Iranian Revolution and would eventually establish the present-day Islamic Republic of Iran, the hostage-takers demanded that the United States extradite Iranian king Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, who had been granted asylum by the Carter administration for cancer treatment.
In the United States, the hostage crisis created “a surge of patriotism” and left “the American people more united than they have been on any issue in two decades.” [Endnote 7] During the weeks leading up to Christmas in 1979, high school students made cards that were delivered to the hostages. Community groups across the country did the same, resulting in bales of Christmas cards. [Endnote 8]
New Vrindaban devotees, although allegedly not concerned with political or humanitarian movements, capitalized on the surge in American patriotism by designing and printing bumper stickers with patriotic themes for the sankirtan pickers. Tapahpunja was the first to begin sticker sankirtan. Dharmatma, at that time the Director of Women’s Sankirtan, recalled:
In the very early days, Tapahpunja was basically in charge of the men. After I moved down to West Virginia from Pittsburgh, and after some time, Bhaktipada asked me to take charge of the men and the women. Then Tapahpunja became an actual picker. Tapahpunja printed the first bumper sticker, one that said, “Don’t Mess With the U. S.” [It] had a picture of an eagle on it. And that was the first bumper sticker. He produced that one. Another one was made at the time of the Iran fiasco, there was a sticker that had a picture of Mickey Mouse [giving the] finger that said, “Hey, Iran!”
I remember the original version of that sticker, which was especially popular with devotee salesmen such as Lokavarnattama dasa ACBSP (Larry Burstein), who made a fortune in illegal business activities and years later spent time in prison, in which the Disney cartoon character Mickey Mouse emphatically proclaimed: “Fuck Iran!” My godbrother Kumar dasa (Craig M. Thompson) told me he would take these stickers into Pittsburgh automobile dealerships and sell dozens at a time to the mechanics; they were that popular during the 1980 Iran hostage crisis. I think we sold them for $2.00 each.
Sticker sankirtan was so huge that book distribution was discontinued, more or less permanently. A new era had dawned at New Vrindaban, which would in short time spread to nearly all the entire United States ISKCON temples: paraphernalia distribution. Books were past history. Stickers proved to be the future of ISKCON fundraising.
A bumper sticker used by New Vrindaban pickers during the Iran Hostage Crisis (1980).
A variation of the bumper sticker used by New Vrindaban pickers during the Iran Hostage Crisis (1980).
Tapahpunja also created a fictitious organization: Americans Who Love American Men Overseas (ALAMO). You can see the word ALAMO on one of the bumper stickers above. He gave us identification cards with our picture on the card, and told us to tell people that their contribution was going towards sending letters to American soldiers stationed overseas. Of course, that was a lie. The money was going to help build New Vrindaban. But we knew that the money was the honey. We did the needful to please our spiritual master and Krishna.
For many months, I told potential donors, “Please give a buck for a Viet Nam vet who got messed up.” I have no idea what that meant, but the line worked. People gave money. Maybe they thought I was a Viet Nam veteran? If I had been born a year earlier, I could have been drafted into that war. When the draft ended in 1973, I was 17 years old. So some people might have thought that I was a young Viet Nam vet with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but I never thought about it. All I knew is people gave money when I recited that line.
Despite our constant lying to people, I guess I still had a little bit of a conscience left, and after a few months I thought since we were collecting all this money, we should actually do something for American veterans. So during my next visit to New Vrindaban, I canvassed a half dozen devotees to give me their old and torn books by Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada: Bhagavad-gita, Srimad-bhagavatam, etc.
When I went back out on the pick, I visited the nearest Veterans Hospital, where I donated a case of books for the hospital library. I asked the secretary in the administrative office to type out a letter for me addressed to ALAMO acknowledging receipt of the books. I thought if I was ever pulled over by the cops, charged with fraud, and taken to court, I could produce this letter which I thought would exonerate me from any crime.
Later, when I did The Pick in Dallas, Texas, I discovered that ALAMO was actually an organization, a church with a bad reputation. The Alamo Christian Foundation was an American cult which was founded in 1969 by Tony Alamo and his wife, Susan Alamo. In the late 1970s the church headquarters was located in Dyer, Arkansas, about 300 miles northeast from Dallas. The organization had a bad name, even in Texas, and many people refused to give us money. For good reason: after years of legal troubles, Tony Alamo was convicted of 10 child rape offenses in 2009. He received a maximum sentence of 175 years and was imprisoned until his death in May 2017.
+Part 3: After much austerity, finally success on The Pick.
During the Summer of 1980, I acquired rather suddenly the ability to get people to stop and listen to me, reach in their wallet and hand me money. At the time I attributed this breakthrough to be the mercy of guru and Krishna: a result of my dogged determination to please my spiritual master.
Today however, I realize that this breakthrough occurred because my natural sense of honesty had finally been sufficiently numbed by untold repetitions of hearing how, if a karmi (fruitive worker, essentially a non-devotee) is tricked into rendering some small service for Krishna, he will make spiritual advancement. We believed we weren’t really lying and stealing from them; we were saving them from hell and blessing them with the priceless treasure of devotional service. We were liberating Laksmi (Lord Vishnu’s consort, the goddess of fortune, a.k.a. money) from people who had stolen her from Krishna. We were taking their money, not to use on our own sense gratification, but to return to Krishna, to glorify God, to help build New Vrindaban.
Only when I believed this transcendental trickery from the core of my heart could I look a suspicious potential donor in the eyes and say with complete conviction, “No, I’m NOT with the Hare Krishnas! This money is going to help needy children.”
Transcendental trickery
Brijabasi Spirit published a darshan with Kirtanananda Swami in which he defended lying on the pick:
Devotee: Maharaja, can a disciple be asked by the spiritual master to do something that seemingly breaks a moral code?
Kirtanananda Maharaja: Yes, Krishna has people break the moral codes. He asked Yudhisthira [the son of the god of death and justice, Yamaraja, and Queen Kunti] to tell a lie. . . . The gopis [milkmaids of Vrindaban] were ready to break all the principles of morality for Krishna. . . . [But] we cannot break a moral principle without instruction from higher authority.
Devotee: Maharaja, how do we explain this apparent immorality to non-devotees, to common people? . . . Sometimes the devotee acts in such a way that it appears that he is breaking the law . . . for instance, to distribute literatures.
Kirtanananda Maharaja: Ordinarily we don’t break the law, we should not do anything that is illegal.
Devotee: But sometimes sankirtan is illegal; book distribution.
Kirtanananda Maharaja: No. Sankirtan cannot be illegal, no matter what any policeman or government says. Sankirtan cannot be illegal. That is higher law. . . . They may say it is illegal, but it is not illegal. [Endnote 9]
Bhaktipada disliked the term “deception,” and preferred to call it “transcendental trickery.” He said, “Even if it [our collecting money] is a little tricky, that isn’t bad.” [Endnote 10]
In the early 1970s, to raise money ISKCON devotees used to go out in the streets wearing traditional Bengali clothes (dhotis, kurtas and saris), chanting Hare Krishna with mrdangas and kartals, passing out Back To Godhead magazines and asking for donations. The collection method was straightforward and honest. But if a man went out in karmi street clothes wearing a wig to disguise his shaved head, and if a woman donned karmi street clothes and ditched the saris, collections increased dramtically. One part-time picker, Kanka devi dasi (Susan O’Neil Hebel) elaborated:
We were hiding our identity, because if we went out in the garb of the Krishna community, dhotis and saris, people would not contribute as much money as we got when we were wearing our regular street clothes. . . . We asked for donations for our Nandagram School for underprivileged children. . . .
I complained to Bhaktipada that what we were telling the people on the road was not what he was using the money for. He said that it is okay to tell a little lie, it is like giving candy to a child when you are trying to administer medicine to the child. He said that they would use their money for cigarettes and alcohol, and it was better for them to be cheated and give the money to us so that we could build a spiritual community. . . .
There were many times when I approached Bhaktipada, complaining that the children in the school system, starting from the nursery school on up, were not benefitting from any of the collections that were coming in even though we were collecting in the name of the school. And he said that it was better that we build the spiritual community first, so that there could be a place for people to come and learn about Krishna, and that the facilities for the children would come after that. [Endnote 11]
One big New Vrindaban picker, Pradhana Gopika devi dasi, explained:
When I first started we would go up to people and pin flowers on them . . . and we would tell people we were “collecting donations to spread the love of God, can you please help, and everyone is giving a dollar or two,” or whatever. . . .
[In time] it got more devious. [We wouldn’t let] the people know where their money was really going. . . . There were a lot of different things we would tell people, even to the point if they would ask, “Are you Hare Krishna?” we would say “No.” [Endnote 12]
Devotees would say anything to get a donation (and Bhaktipada approved of these deceptions), but sometimes this policy backfired and the pickers ended up in jail. For the most part, we sankirtan devotees considered this Krishna’s “special mercy.” Jalakolahali (George Myers, initiated at New Vrindaban in 1974) explained how he and his sankirtan partner were once sentenced to thirty days in a Cincinnati jail for theft by deception:
I went out doing records with Vedapravartaka [William Wahoff]. We would drive around in our van filled with cut-out records; old records which were recalled from the record stores, which no one wanted to buy. They cost us a nickel, maybe ten or twenty-five cents. We called up a young man to our van and pretended we were from a local rock radio station. Sometimes we had a microphone and pretended to be on the air. We said we’re passing out these records for charity and were asking everyone for a donation, like twenty dollars. We put the microphone up to his mouth and asked him if he would give a donation. Naturally, they all thought they were on the air, and they didn’t want to sound cheap so they gave money. We made a lot of money selling those old records.
Then Veda started to tell people that the money was going for handicapped children, and I protested, “No way! You can’t say that! That’s stretching the truth too far!” Veda said, “No, it’s okay, because the money is going to help build New Vrindaban and attract spiritually handicapped people to get a taste of Krishna consciousness by visiting the Palace.” I said, “No, that’s stretching it too much.”
So Veda called Bhaktipada on the phone about it, and Bhaktipada agreed: “Yes, your collections ARE going to help handicapped children. Everyone is handicapped in this material world. Go ahead. If it increases your collection, it must be Krishna’s desire.”
So we started saying that, and our collections did increase, but soon after we were caught by the police in Cincinnati, who took us downtown. Apparently they had gotten lots of complaints about us. The judge threw us in jail. The news media was informed, and the radio stations began asking if anyone had bought a record from us, to return the record to the county courthouse for a refund. During our trial, the prosecuting attorney wheeled in five carts stacked with record albums. The albums we had sold to people. There were hundreds of records on the carts. He told the judge: “We have more outside if you want to see them.” The judge sentenced us to thirty days in jail. [Endnote 13]
During an interview with CBS correspondent Jane Wallace, Rev. Norman Hewlett (formerly Namacharya dasa from Cleveland, Ohio) [Endnote 14] and Mallika (a female sankirtan devotee) talked about some of their experiences collecting money for New Vrindaban:
Hewlett: I was going out, making four or five hundred dollars a day, and we were sending it to build the Palace of Gold.
Wallace: How were you making four or five hundred dollars a day?
Hewlett: A lot of ways. Like this flower here. Let’s say I give you the flower, and tell you “I’m helping crippled children today.”
Mallika: We would use the words “orphan,” “slow-learners,” anything to get this sentimental feeling. We never said, “We’re with the Hare Krishnas. We have this big farm project. We’re trying to fund it.” We’d never say that.
Hewlett: Crippled children was one lie. On Veterans’ Day, we’d say we’re helping the veterans.
Wallace: Another lie.
Hewlett: Yeah. [Endnote 15]
During a television interview with CBS correspondent Jane Wallace, Bhaktipada explained why it was acceptable for Krishna devotees to trick non-devotees into giving them money: for their own benefit.
Wallace: Are there any rules as to what is allowed for Krishnas to raise money? Under deceptive ways? Is that okay?
Bhaktipada: Well, that depends. Just like a mother may give a pill to a child with a sugar coating and say, “Here, this tastes real good.” That is love. Sometimes devotees appear a little deceptive. They try to put a sugar coating on the act of getting people to give in charity.
Wallace: All’s fair in love and fundraising?
Bhaktipada: Well, when people are ill informed, when people are under the modes of ignorance, they do not know what is good and what is not good.
Wallace: Deception isn’t going to make them better informed, sir.
Bhaktipada: I’m not saying deception. But I’m trying to say we can sugar coat it for them. [Endnote 16]
Bhaktipada rationalized lying for Krishna:
Even if a devotee, due to over-enthusiasm or lack of discretion, does something that is questionable to get someone to make a donation, that actually is not harmful to the person [giving the donation]; it is to their good that they are engaged in God’s service. In Sanskrit it’s called ajñata sukrti, to unknowingly perform pious activity. This is what’s behind our sankirtan activities: going out and begging from the public to engage them in God’s service, in God’s work. This is actually the highest form of welfare work, because it’s doing what is ultimately good for everyone. If a man gives just a penny, he benefits eternally; his path back to Godhead has begun. [Endnote 17]
But lying for Krishna was not a new development in fundraising. ISKCON had been collecting money by false pretenses since the earliest days at 26 Second Avenue. Rayaram dasa (Raymond Marais), one of Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada’s first disciples (initiated in September 1966), who served as managing editor for Back To Godhead for nearly three years, criticized ISKCON for collecting money at a peace rally and telling people the money was going to be used to promote peace, when it was actually being used to print Prabhupada’s books. He said the end does not justify the means.
One of Rayaram’s godbrothers years later recalled his criticism and his subsequent defection. Prabhupada did not consider Rayaram’s complaints as legitimate, and dismissed him. Satsvarupa dasa Goswami, who joined ISKCON in 1966 and shared an apartment with Rayaram in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, explained:
We all looked up to Rayaram because he was one of the most senior devotees. He was also the most learned in the philosophy. When Prabhupada first went to San Francisco, only Rayaram was competent enough to give the evening lectures. He could stand off the whole Lower East Side crowd and their sometimes wild questions. He impressed us. He and I were friends. We had lived together in my First Street apartment in 1966, and although he joined only a few weeks before I did, he was confident in his relationship with Prabhupada. He helped me ease into the life of a devotee and to deepen my connection with Prabhupada. [After Rayaram defected (blooped) from ISKCON] I wrote him out of concern.
His letter [in response] was full of criticism. . . . He criticized the fact that we had recently attended a peace rally in Washington, D. C. and collected hundreds of dollars. He said that our collection was fraudulent because the devotees had claimed they were collecting for the peace movement when they were actually raising money to print Prabhupada’s books. . . . Rayaram said that he didn’t agree that the end justified the means. Printing Prabhupada’s books was sacred, he said, but if it were important, the money would have come in another way. . . .
Later when I asked Prabhupada how such a strong devotee could leave, Prabhupada said simply, “He was not serious [about spiritual life].” [Endnote 18]
Years later, Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada again approved that his disciples cheat people to collect money for Krishna. In the early 1970s ISKCON made hundreds of thousands (if not millions) of dollars collecting money which they said would help the starving Bangladesh refugees whose homes had been destroyed by the Great Cyclone of 1970, one of the deadliest humanitarian disasters ever recorded.
At the time, ISKCON collectors told donors that their money was going to feed refugees who were displaced by the disasters in Bangladesh, which included a smallpox epidemic, floods, war-related genocide, and the aftermath of the Bhola tropical cyclone. 10 million people were displaced. The catastrophes were in people’s minds, especially after George Harrison and Ravi Shankar performed their “Concerts for Bangladesh” at Madison Square Garden in New York City to raise international awareness of, and fund relief for refugees from East Pakistan.
Poster for George Harrison’s concert for Bangladesh
Devotees began telling potential donors that the money they collected was going to feed starving children in Bangladesh. Dharmatma explained: “In the early days, there was those horrible disasters over in Bangladesh. And at that time, George Harrison, one of the Beatles, he had produced a record for us and the book [Krishna Book], so we had started collecting for starving people over in Bangladesh. That was the first thing. To my knowledge, none of the money was sent to Bangladesh.” [Endnote 19]
Of course, the money collected by the ISKCON devotees did not go to help starving refugees; it went to print more of Prabhupada’s books and build Prabhupada’s temples, especially in India. Prabhupada was not going to bother his head about “some small lying about Bangladesh or other things. . . . Not for ANY reason shall we decrease the book sales and collection.” In a letter to the GBC representative for New York City ISKCON, Bali Mardan (William Berke), Prabhupada wrote:
I am in due receipt of your both letters dated December 21 and 22, 1972, along with the copy of income statement for six months ending November 30, 1972. I am most pleased to note from that income statement that since June your monthly income has doubled and that for six months you have collected $245,000. That is very much astonishing to me, and I can understand from seeing these figures just how much suitable you are for heading up the responsible position of senior man in the New York temple affairs. That means you have made the most substantial increase in financial status anywhere in our Society. Krishna has blessed you with the best business sense. . . .
Yes, if it is enhancing our distribution of books to wear warm clothes like coat-pants in winter, I have no objection, you may wear them. Of course we may take money for Krishna using any method of beg, borrow and steal, but more advanced understanding of Krishna consciousness process is that by telling the truth in a very palatable way, that is the most successful system. Your mentioning Bangladesh feeding of refugees, of course we are feeding sometimes the local inhabitants, up to 1,000 persons on some occasions, but there is no organized program of feeding the refugees at Mayapur. In fact, so far I have seen, all the refugees from Nadia District have gone back to Bangladesh, there are no more refugee camps. So it will not be the truth to say to people like that [that the money is going to feed starving Bangladesh refugees], but I have no objection if they [non-devotees] give more [Laksmi after] hearing such thing. Let them [our Laksmi collectors] say [whatever they want, regardless if it is fact or fiction]. Who will check us?
We may tell any damn thing to induce people to give us money on Krishna’s behalf, that is not the point. The point is that by saying lies, the less advanced neophyte devotees may become entangled or disturbed in their minds by it. [In other words, only the most “spiritually advanced” devotees can tell lies without becoming disturbed in their minds.] Of course by their collecting more money and giving to Krishna, he will relieve them of all anxiety of telling lies. But not everyone is able to catch the big fish without themselves becoming wet. I am convinced that if you simply glorify Krishna and our books in the best descriptive manner, that anyone and everyone, no matter even atheist or otherwise, they can be convinced to purchase.
Of course that is a great art and not everyone can do it, but gradually by practice of preaching in this way, striving to so much present a wonderful picture of our books to the people, gradually you will master the trick how to do it. Being the senior devotee there, you may give the younger students all good instruction and advice how to do this, but not for any reason shall we decrease the book sales and collection monthly over some small lying about Bangladesh or other things. [Endnote 20]
When public interest in the Bangladesh disaster began to decline, New Vrindaban devotees discovered that they could collect big at rock concerts by telling potential donors that the money they collected was going to help reform the laws against the possession and sale of marijuana. Dharmatma explained:
One of the things was some of the devotees, not all of them, just a small group of devotees . . . they were working the rock concerts, so they produced an I. D. that said “NORMAL” on it. NORMAL is the National Organization for the Reformation of Marijuana Laws. A lot of these concerts they were going—it was in the early days, a lot of people were taking marijuana and that—so that was a real easy way to collect money. So they had this identification that had a little marijuana leaf on it and they passed out flowers and things . . . and got pretty good donations with that. [Endnote 21]
A brief history of New Vrindaban fundraising.
For the first few years of New Vrindaban’s history, Hayagriva (Howard M. Wheeler), the co-founder of New Vrindaban, provided all the funding for the rural community from his salary as an assistant professor of English at Ohio State University in Columbus, the largest university in the United States. He purchased scythes and bush axes for clearing paths, screens for windows, insect repellent, mantles for kerosene lanterns, detergent, a broom, foam mats, rubbing alcohol for mosquito bites, sugar and oatmeal, canned fruit juice, fruits and vegetables.
Incense factory established.
During the summer of 1970, if not earlier, an incense manufacturing factory was established at New Vrindaban—operated by Ranadhir (Randoph Nieburgs)—to generate income for community maintenance and expansion. Shipments of incense were sent out to ISKCON city temples from New York City to Nairobi.
Randall Gorby remembered, “They had then started an incense factory, and that was in I believe ’69 or ’70, to where they were starting to sell Spiritual Sky incense throughout the nation. That was where they were manufacturing it. They would buy the bulk equipment from India, have it shipped in, break it down into packaging, have the packages made here and sent out for sale and distribution.” [Endnote 24]
In 1971, the incense manufacturing operation moved to the newly-purchased Madhuban farm at New Vrindaban. One of the incense dippers, Suresvara dasa, related:
[In 1971] New Vrindaban was the incense capital of ISKCON (east of the Mississippi anyway). Crates of plain sticks arrived regularly from the Far East via Los Angeles temple. Bahulaban shipped and received orders from New York to Nairobi, supplying Lord Chaitanya’s legions with crores [Endnote 22] of scented swords to help fight the war on Maya. In between shipping and receiving, the task of dipping the sticks in oils was given to Ranadhir and a few of us at Madhuban.
Madhuban was brand new territory. We were the first devotees to tend cows and plant crops there. In the mornings, Stan (now Satadhanya Maharaja), Anthony (now Ambarish dasa) and myself dipped incense and fought off the flies. Afternoons, we worked in the gardens or on a thousand-and-one other projects. What times. Pots-and-pans kirtans, fireside prasad, classes by candlelight after big electrical storms (or bills). . . .
As summer faded the air turned cool. Soon the sun was too weak to dry the incense properly, and our hands began to numb during dipping. Finally, we were forced to move the whole operation down to Bahulaban into the old barn. We shared the barn with the cows—half Spiritual Sky, half Goloka. [Endnote 23]
The incense business skyrocketed and began providing tens (if not hundreds) of thousands of dollars annual income for New Vrindaban. The community used the funds for expansion: purchasing land and properties. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada wrote to Ranadhir: “I understand that the incense business is very lucrative there. So get money and develop New Vrindaban to its fullest extent.” [Endnote 25]
Hayagriva explained, “Making Spiritual Sky incense and distributing it through the city temples . . . proved to be a real gold mine. By the spring of ’71 sufficient money came in to enable us to buy the other two farms [Bahulaban and Guruban], and as soon as we did people started pouring in.” [Endnote 26]
Another Brijabasi recalled, “The devotees dipped incense in a little block building at Bahulaban, and by all accounts were immensely successful. . . . The community bought incense from San Francisco and had a bus that toured, chanting and selling incense.” [Endnote 27] In a couple years, the incense manufacturing factory moved to the Pittsburgh ISKCON temple. Jauvana dasa explained:
Kirtanananda had just returned from India, and his reputation as ISKCON’s first sannyasi (at that time there were fewer than ten sannyasis in the whole movement) preceded him. I asked him if I could go with him to New Vrindaban. He replied that only a handful of brahmacharis were spending the winter there and they had to chisel ice out of their shoes when they got up in the morning. But, I could accompany him to Pittsburgh, where he had a city temple, he told me. I signed up, and because he outranked Bhagavan [William Ehrlichman, the Detroit ISKCON temple president], I was on my way to Pittsburgh.
I was a little awe-struck by Kirtanananda when we first met. He played the role of the charismatic ascetic so well. He spoke with power and conviction. He had a grasp of the philosophy that I was just starting to know. He seemed genuinely austere and determined, generating that “first disciple” aura. But as soon as we got to Pittsburgh, I knew I was in trouble. The temple was in a giant former Polish dance hall. It was filled with toxic fumes from vats of chemical dyes used for dipping incense sticks. It was the home of Spiritual Sky. I guess it was funding Kirtanananda’s work because he seemed to love the smell. . . .
In Pittsburgh, I got involved in acting in some plays that we performed for guests on Sundays. And trying to keep my sanity at night from what appeared to be a number of ghosts who frequented the temple. Perhaps some long-deceased jilted Polish lovers. [Endnote 28]
The birth of New Vrindaban sankirtan.
During the mid-1970s, the times were changing and New Vrindaban incense sales (the primary source of income for the community) decreased dramatically. The counterculture—or hippie movement—in the United States lasted roughly from 1964 to 1972. It coincided with America’s war against Vietnam, and reached its peak in 1967, the “Summer of Love.” [Endnote 29]
New Vrindaban’s incense sales plummeted drastically as the counterculture began dying out nationwide. The community lost important customers when head shops went out of business. Incense orders decreased until eventually New Vrindaban’s incense factory closed permanently. Granted, New Vrindaban residents lived simply and didn’t need much capital for their maintenance, but if the community was going to construct seven temples on seven hills, or a palace for their spiritual master, clearly some substantial outside source of funding would be needed.
Prabhupada recognized early on that the community would “require millions of dollars for developing,” and addressed this issue during a darshan at New Vrindaban on June 9, 1969. “So we have to develop this center from outside work and inside work. Outside work means to draw sympathy of the people, to draw money for development. This is also required. We have got a very big scheme. It is not possible that by one man’s earning we can do that. It is not possible. We require millions of dollars for developing. If we want to construct here temples, at least seven temples, nicely, so that requires huge amount. . . . If we construct temple, we will require so many things. It is not possible to be self sufficient within this land. We have to get so many things outside. That means we have to get money from outside. Yes.” [Endnote 30]
Prabhupada was enthusiastic for the development of New Vrindaban, and approved a GBC proposal that each ISKCON center contribute twenty dollars per month for “the improvement of our New Vrindaban Community Project.” [Endnote 31-] Despite Prabhupada’s approval of the proposal to send money to New Vrindaban, hardly any temples did so. Yet the coffers of the community unexpectedly began filling in 1973 (right around when the incense manufacturing business tanked) when one experienced book distributor from Canada happened to move to New Vrindaban.
Dharmatma dasa (Dennis Gorrick—who figured prominently during the “Shooting Affair” as described in Chapter 25 of Gold, Guns and God, Vol. 3), joined ISKCON at the Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, temple in June 1972. He explained the origin of New Vrindaban’s traveling sankirtan party (TSKP):
When I first came to live at New Vrindaban, I tended the community’s bee hives; after some time I began milking the cows. About three or four months later, during one community meeting, an announcement was made saying that the community did not have sufficient funds to purchase hay for the cows. There was a real crisis. What could we do? Without even thinking, I opened my big mouth and blurted out, “I used to go out and sell Prabhupada’s books at the Vancouver temple. I could take out a party and try it here.”
Kirtanananda thought it was a good idea. In the morning, I went out in our first sankirtan vehicle, the old red Valiant, an old, beat-up car (er, heap) with Mothers Maharha, Mankumari and Nirmala, and Bhakta Emil Prabhu, and we drove to Columbus, Ohio. We distributed a few books and returned that night. We gave Kirtanananda Swami one hundred and fifty dollars. He was in ecstasy. He knew when he saw a good thing. From then on, we went out on sankirtan regularly. After a few weeks of one-day trips, we got real brave and asked Maharaja if we could stay out a whole weekend. Another time we went out for an entire week. It just increased more and more. Our service was fixed: distribute Srila Prabhupada’s books and bring Srimati Laksmi Devi [the goddess of wealth] back home to Their Lordships’ Lotus Feet. [Endnote 32]
The New Vrindaban book distributors quickly discovered that they often faced opposition from shopping center managers, mall security, and the police. The best places to sell books, such as privately-owned shopping centers and malls, enforced “no solicitation” policies. Even public properties often had crippling restrictions which severely curtailed book distribution scores. Occasionally, ISKCON temples hired lawyers to file expensive legal suits which contested what they believed were unconstitutional restrictions on their right to practice their religion, as in the case of airport book distribution, but in most cases, devotees simply ignored the law and worked lucrative sites anyway.
If the sankirtan devotees were stopped by a security guard or police officer, they apologized and often, in defiance of the law, began working at another location in the same or a nearby shopping center. The offense was, after all, a minor crime, usually only a misdemeanor, and it was economically more productive to risk getting caught and paying a small fine, than to work legal spots which were not financially viable. After months and years of practice, veteran book distributors and Laksmi collectors developed a sixth sense, and could tell when a place had become “hot” and the mall security or police were searching for them. Then they would leave, and return again perhaps a few hours (or days) later after the spot had “cooled down.”
The New Vrindaban sankirtan devotees soon learned to double and triple their collections, despite “police hassles.” The Brijabasi Spirit reported, “Yesterday, Bhakta Emil, Udhareyta Prabhu, Dharmatma dasa and Mothers Mankumari, Nancy, Cuppy, and Soncharya, with Krishna’s help, collected $325.00 in just a few hours, amidst police hassles and pouring rain.” [Endnote 33]
Dharmatma described some of their adventures on the road, and their disgust with the police, “On sankirtan we are constantly harassed by ‘Maya’s Pigs’ [policemen] as Prabhupada calls them. So we are always praying for new and better ways of distributing Prabhupada’s books to them [the non-devotees]. Last Tuesday ’til Sunday, the Brijabasi book distributors went to a soccer game, two rock concerts, a major league baseball game and, believe it or not, an all-night drive-in theater. All in all 1,100 Back to Godheads, 85 hard Krishna Books and 2,400 New Vrindaban brochures were distributed and a record (for us) of $2,867.00 was liberated from the karmis. Top donation was $81.00 received by Mother Maharha who is proving to be very expert at freeing Srimati Laksmi from the clutch of the rascals [non-devotees]. Mother Jagaddhatri distributed fifteen hard Krishna Books one day amid police chases.” [Endnote 34]
Dharmatma’s traveling sankirtan program had become so successful that Kirtanananda Swami, in a letter to Prabhupada, claimed that the New Vrindaban book distributors were second only to the distributors from the San Francisco temple. Kirtanananda Swami wrote, “You will also be very glad to know that New Vrindaban is now sending out regularly a Traveling Sankirtan Party which is currently second only to San Francisco in distribution.” [Endnote 35]
Less than a year later, Kirtanananda reported to Prabhupada that Dharmatma’s parties were distributing 1,000 Back to Godheads and collecting $1,000 per day. He wrote, “I may also inform you that our Traveling Sankirtan Party has been doing very nicely lately. They have been averaging about 1,000 Back to Godheads a day and also collecting daily about a thousand dollars. So Krishna is blessing us more and more and we thank you for it.” [Endnote 36]
Paraphernalia distribution
Devotees were enlivened to distribute Prabhupada’s books, which they believed could change a person’s life just by touching. But after a short time they realized that Kirtanananda Swami was not so much interested in distributing books; he was interested in collecting money. One scholar of New Vrindaban, E. Burke Rochford, Jr. explained, “Originally the term [sankirtan] denoted a practice by which Krishna devotees went out into public places to chant, distribute literature, recruit new members, and solicit donations, but by the mid-1970s in ISKCON, it had begun to take on a more monetary character.” [Endnote 37]
Dharmatma confirmed: “In the very beginning, it was just myself and about five girls going out, and our distribution was the way sankirtan is really supposed to be. We went out with ISKCON name tags with our picture, and we distributed incense and books. Donations basically came from the books that we were distributing, the Krishna conscious literature. And then it evolved to—what happened was—it evolved as we were collecting more money, the emphasis decreased on books and the emphasis was more on paraphernalia and just collecting money for the paraphernalia. So it went from incense and books to just incense, and then it went to flowers, like that.” [Endnote 38]
Scam-kirtan
Within a short time, New Vrindaban sankirtan devotees discovered that they could collect much more money if they fraudulently presented themselves as collecting for a popular non-religious charity. Dharmatma said, “There were other temples out there collecting with ISKCON I. D. badges, so it was apparent there was a conflict. People would say, ‘No, I gave,’ or ‘No, I don’t want to give to the Hare Krishna. You are just a Hare Krishna. I don’t want to give.’ So we developed some other means of collecting.” [Endnote 39]
The first Christmas marathon.
New Vrindaban’s traveling sankirtan parties discovered that their book distribution and Laksmi collections dramatically increased during the month of December on account of the massive number of people shopping for Christmas gifts at the stores and malls and also due to shoppers’ heightened inclination to contribute to charities during the holiday season.
Yet the traveling sankirtan parties all experienced setbacks due to security guards and police who attempted to curtail the devotees’ sincere, but illegal fund-raising activities. One sankirtan devotee stationed in Louisiana, Suksmarupini devi dasi (Suzanne Bludeau), wrote about her traveling party’s exciting adventures trying to elude two persistent mall security guards during the December 1974 Christmas Marathon:
While distributing Srila Prabhupada’s nectar in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, we felt at times a part of some intense television drama, perhaps “Mission Impossible,” being chased, as it were, out of every place in town. Two security personalities, old Felix and buzzy little Nicky on his motorcycle, will stick in my mind for a long time, although I don’t see that it’ll get me back to Godhead any faster. For as long as it lasted, Baton Rouge was like a heavenly planet—we stayed at an individual’s house who rendered all facilities to us, had our first Sunday feast (10 preps), a good crop of young innocent people at an intersection (“Sri Light”) that produced vast Laksmi [money] for the Maharaja [Kirtanananda], what to speak of celestially warm weather.
Alas! as with all situations within this material creation, the whole show was washed up in a week, and none too soon, for our next number would have been from behind bars. Sriman Dharmatma dasa, always convinced of the potency of Lord Chaitanya’s movement and ever ready to risk material comfort and security for his spiritual master’s pleasure, would boldly put four or more of us inside the mall each night (a daring feat nowadays). We were unaware that sinister Felix was lurking in his den, the so-called “Mall Office,” awaiting for the opportune time to pounce on the innocent mothers. Even though he must have “nipped” each of us at least five times, we couldn’t take such a fool seriously, so Dharmatma Prabhu’s command was “Blast it, girls!” In light of the fact that now the Big Days were on—Christmas just a few days off.
Unaware of Felix’s Master Plan, there we all were, distributing [paperback Krishna Book] trilogies to a fare-thee-well, when, from out of the dark (tamas guna), came ol’ Felix, in a drunken state and hopping mad because he had to be called out of bed this time (You know how much karmis are attached to their sense gratification). He personally escorted us all off the entire property, and assured us that the next step was jail. Earlier in the day, I was given the exact same verdict, while distributing at “Sri Light” from one of Nicky’s henchmen, who completely embarrassed me by screeching to a halt, getting out of the car, and yelling at me in his loudest voice, all this in the middle of a few long, long lanes of traffic whom I had just gotten donations from.
Who knows what they were thinking I really was? Previous to this, days were spent there, looking fearfully down immense traffic lines in all four directions every minute, and at the mere indication of any sort of cop, walking nonchalantly past three lanes of traffic, books quickly stuffed in bag or under coat, and this done about every 20 minutes. I’m sure the cops who had to pass by often were wondering what sort of insane personality this was who was always seen crossing the street to the “Burger King” parking lot.
Krishna is so kind—he states in Bhagavad-gita (9.31) that his devotee will never, by any means, be vanquished, and therefore he lets us work these places for at least some time just to get Laksmi for Maharaja to utilize for fulfilling the desire of Srila Prabhupada.
The non-devotees are all stealing from Krishna, and since Srila Prabhupada has said, also in the Gita, that a thief is never happy, we can imagine their miserable condition. Bereft of good association and deity worship, we can only remember all the wonderful plans that Kirtanananda Maharaja has for any Laksmi brought back to Narayana [Endnote 40]—the Srngasana [altar throne], the new greenhouse, Prabhupada’s marble Palace, more cows, farm machinery, and so much more nectar. So now about to embark on our next journey into the modes of material nature, we will be endeavoring harder to bring interested souls back to see the transcendental abode of [New] Vrindaban. [Endnote 41]
New Vrindaban book distributors, like many ISKCON devotees, also worked at busy airports. This was incredibly grueling work, mainly due to vehement opposition from airport employees who had seen too many of the devotees’ clever “tricks” to increase their collections, such as the “Change Up,” which was described in a newspaper article titled “Fundraising Lawsuits: Critics Term ‘Sankirtan’ A Hustle.”
A man on his way to catch an airplane is stopped by a young woman who pins a button on his lapel. The attractively dressed woman—an ISKCON devotee on a sankirtan—asks for a contribution to help the starving children of India. He agrees to donate a dollar. He reaches for his wallet. The devotee displays a wad of $1 bills.
She asks the contributor to trade her ones for a $20. The man agrees. The change up begins. Once the $20 is in hand, the devotee tries to convince the donor to part with the whole $20.
The technique . . . is based on persistence. Repeatedly, the devotee will put off returning the change with, “Sir, please give the $20. The children need it so much.” Many donors succumb to the sheer persistence, become exasperated and leave, or don’t have the time to argue about getting their change. . . . The chief reasons airports are favored as sankirtan sites are that tourists usually have larger-than-normal amounts of cash and little time to waste. [Endnote 42]
One New Vrindaban picker, Pradhana Gopika devi dasi (Christina Marie Mills), remembered:
There were little tricks. . . . The girls from the Chicago temple were collecting quite large sums of money. . . . They called it the Change-Up, and it was a trick. They would ask for a donation, and it all had to do with timing and the way you talked to the people, so as they would pull out their wallet, you would say, “Well, I have a whole lot of change [small bills], you know. Can you give me a big bill and I will give you back change?”
These girls in Chicago were quite bold. They would take every large bill the person would give them from their wallet, and just hand them a little bit of change back, and say, “Is that okay? Can you leave it at that?” without counting back their change or anything, and a lot of times people would not even notice, and they would just say, “Okay.”
So they would end up, you know, with a hundred dollars or more some times, and they would be very persistent, and the person would say, “No, that’s not enough.” And say, “How’s that? Can you leave it at that?” and just keep going until the person would finally get fed up and say, “That’s okay. Fine. Take it. Leave me alone.”
We weren’t allowed to do that at first. Bhaktipada didn’t like it, but after he found out how much money they were making, he said, “Yes, do it,” and then we were expected to do it. [Endnote 43]
New Vrindaban book distributors and Laksmi collectors at Pittsburgh International Airport were constantly harassed by self-appointed vigilantes who attempted to warn potential “victims” and “break up” sales. Dharmatma dasa glorified the “brave” women who worked day in and day out at Pittsburgh International Airport pushing unsuspecting travelers for donations:
How the mothers go out there day after day I’ll never understand. Actually, in such a hellish condition, one is forced to remember Sri Krishna. The announcements over the Public Address [System] come every few minutes: ‘The girls passing out flowers and books in the main lobby are ripping you off—repeat, ripping you off. Don’t give them anything!’ After hearing this all day long; having the bartender and other employees trying to break up each and every sale; being threatened repeatedly with fists, obscenities and so on; most of the mothers immediately head for the nearest Greyhound bus going toward Moundsville or Wheeling, West Virginia.
If nothing else, we are learning one thing: that our only shelter is Krishna. It’s explained in Caitanya-caritamrita that if one remembers the Lotus Feet of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, then even the most difficult tasks become easy; just like the other night, when Mother Mahadevi and myself tried to get back to Chicago, where some of the mothers are distributing. The whole crew of demons among the airport employees showed up to see us off. They tried everything: cursing, ripping up our books, blaspheming; they even tried to steal our luggage. I thought we were through with them at the security check, so I told them quite frankly how degraded they were, but when I looked up, there they were, four of them standing abreast, blocking our way to the gate where our plane was leaving in just three minutes. With a “Jaya Nrsimhadeva!” and a gulp, we blasted through them and made it on the plane with them right behind. Maya is always right there a step behind us. She actually forces us to remember Krishna. [Endnote 44]
The Santa Claus pick.
In December 1976, devotees impersonated Salvation Army collectors by wearing Santa Claus suits and collecting under fraudulent pretense, and many were arrested by police. Jayatirtha dasa Adhikari, an important GBC member, said, “It [the ISKCON Santa Claus fraud] was published in practically every newspaper in the word; a picture of Santa Claus being arrested by a policeman in America. . . . Also the President of the United States [Gerald Ford, Jr.] questioned one boy in a Santa Claus outfit.” [Endnote 45]
Newspaper cartoon poking fun at the New Vrindaban Santas fundraising on the streets and in the subways of New York City (December 1976).
Hare Krishna Santas being booked at a police station (newspaper photo, December 1976).
During an interview with CBS correspondent Jane Wallace, Rev. Norman Hewlett (formerly Namacharya dasa from Cleveland, Ohio) [Endnote 46] and Mallika (a female sankirtan devotee) talked about some of their experiences collecting money for New Vrindaban:
Hewlett: I was going out, making four or five hundred dollars a day, and we were sending it to build the Palace of Gold.
Wallace: How were you making four or five hundred dollars a day?
Hewlett: A lot of ways. Like this flower here. Let’s say I give you the flower, and tell you “I’m helping crippled children today.”
Mallika: We would use the words “orphan,” “slow-learners,” anything to get this sentimental feeling. We never said, “We’re with the Hare Krishnas. We have this big farm project. We’re trying to fund it.” We’d never say that.
Hewlett: Crippled children was one lie. On Veterans’ Day, we’d say we’re helping the veterans.
Wallace: Another lie.
Hewlett: Yeah. [Endnote 47]
During a television interview with CBS correspondent Jane Wallace, Bhaktipada explained why it was acceptable for Krishna devotees to trick non-devotees into giving them money: for their own benefit.
Wallace: Are there any rules as to what is allowed for Krishnas to raise money? Under deceptive ways? Is that okay?
Bhaktipada: Well, that depends. Just like a mother may give a pill to a child with a sugar coating and say, “Here, this tastes real good.” That is love. Sometimes devotees appear a little deceptive. They try to put a sugar coating on the act of getting people to give in charity.
Wallace: All’s fair in love and fundraising?
Bhaktipada: Well, when people are ill informed, when people are under the modes of ignorance, they do not know what is good and what is not good.
Wallace: Deception isn’t going to make them better informed, sir.
Bhaktipada: I’m not saying deception. But I’m trying to say we can sugar coat it for them. [Endnote 48]
Cheating for Krishna
Srimad-bhagavatam teaches that only greedy materialists consider “money is as good as honey.” A devotee, on the other hand, only accumulates enough money to keep body and soul together. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada explained:
The honey gathered in the comb is taken away by force [by the bee keeper]. Therefore one who accumulates money should realize that he may be harassed by the government or by thieves or even killed by enemies. Especially in this age of Kali Yuga, it is said that instead of protecting the money of the citizens, the government itself will take away the money with the force of law. The learned brahmin had therefore decided that he should not accumulate any money. One should own as much as he immediately needs. There is no need to keep a big balance at hand, along with the fear that it may be plundered by the government or by thieves. [Endnote 49]
However, when money is used in Krishna’s service—to provide funding for ISKCON or the BBT—Prabhupada said that one could collect millions of dollars. He said, “Just like in our movement we collect millions of dollars, but it goes for Krishna’s service, for constructing temple, for providing the devotees, for publishing books, for spreading this knowledge, in so many ways, not personal expenditure.” [Endnote 50] Prabhupada said:
For the service of the Lord you can collect millions of dollars, but for your livelihood you cannot take one dollar from any person. [Endnote 51]
We don’t use anything for my personal comfort; everything for Krishna. That is called renouncement, not a single farthing for my personal comfort, but millions of dollars for Krishna. [Endnote 52]
“Money is the honey” goes so far as it is employed for Krishna consciousness. [Endnote 53]
“Money is the honey.”
ISKCON devotees became fond of quoting, “Money is the honey,” and they often used illegal means to acquire it. Dharmatma concluded: “The ends justified the means.” [Endnote 54]
In this statement, Dharmatma directly quoted his spiritual master, Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, who explained:
Book selling, there is no question of moral and immoral. We must sell. Just like in fighting. Where there is fight, the soldiers, to gain victory, there is no question of moral and immoral. He must gain victory. . . . We want that book selling must be increased as much as possible. This we want. The same principle: let the child take medicine, never mind the father is speaking lies. That is... Because as soon as he takes the medicine he’ll be benefited. End justifies the means. End is that everyone should have a Krishna literature. Doesn’t matter what is the means. Because he has taken one Krishna literature, that justifies everything. This is the principle. [Endnote 55]
Although we were lying and cheating the karmis (non-devotees) to get their money, we thought we were doing them the highest service, engaging them in Krishna’s service. We were not keeping the money for ourselves; we were giving it to New Vrindaban, to a great cause, to satisfy the Lord.
In Bhagavad-gita (10.36) Krishna called himself “the gambling of cheats.” This indicates that cheating comes from Krishna; cheating is Krishna. Prabhupada explained: “There are many kinds of cheaters all over the universe. . . . As the Supreme, Krishna can be more deceitful than any mere man. If Krishna chooses to deceive a person, no one can surpass him in his deceit. His greatness is not simply one-sided—it is all-sided.”[Endnote 56]
Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada also explained that great devotees sometimes cheat others: “Great souls cheat others for a great cause. . . . To satisfy the Lord, anything is good, for it is in relation with the Absolute Truth.” Prabhupada explained:
That great souls cheat others may be astonishing to know, but it is a fact that great souls cheat others for a great cause. It is said that Lord Krishna also advised Yudhisthira to tell a lie before Dronacharya, and it was also for a great cause. The Lord wanted it, and therefore it was a great cause. Satisfaction of the Lord is the criterion of one who is bona fide, and the highest perfection of life is to satisfy the Lord by one’s occupational duty. That is the verdict of Gita and Bhagavatam.
Dhritarastra and Vidura, followed by Gandhari, did not disclose their determination to Sanjaya, although he was constantly with Dhritarastra as his personal assistant. Sanjaya never thought that Dhritarastra could perform any act without consulting him. But Dhirtarastra’s going away from home was so confidential that it could not be disclosed even to Sanjaya. Sanatana Goswami also cheated the keeper of the prison house while going away to see Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, and similarly Raghunath dasa Goswami also cheated his priest and left home for good to satisfy the Lord.
To satisfy the Lord, anything is good, for it is in relation with the Absolute Truth. We [Prabhupada] also had the same opportunity to cheat the family members and leave home to engage in the service of Srimad-bhagavatam. Such cheating was necessary for a great cause, and there is no loss for any party in such transcendental fraud. [Endnote 57]
Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada said that cheating “for Krishna’s satisfaction, then it is all right.” He explained, “So sometimes God has to do such cheating of affection. That is not cheating actually. But the cheating propensity is there in God. Otherwise where we get it? (laughter) But we use cheating for our personal sense gratification. But if you use that cheating propensity for Krishna’s satisfaction, then it is all right.” [Endnote 58]
We interpreted these verses to mean that cheating for ourselves is sinful, but cheating for Krishna is divine. Yet Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada sometimes insisted that only a pure devotee could do these things; cheat for Krishna. Ordinary devotees were not so advanced and they should refrain from dishonest or illegal activities. But because Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada (and later Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada) had encouraged his devotees to cheat for Krishna, we were protected. Just as a soldier is not prosecuted for killing on the battlefield because he is simply following the orders of his commander, similarly we, under orders from the pure devotees of Krishna, would not incur bad karma from lying and cheating for Krishna, because it was authorized.
“But if you use that cheating propensity for Krishna’s satisfaction, then it is all right.”
Hrishikesh the Maharathi.
Quickly, after I learned to lie and cheat for Krishna, I did big on “The Pick,” and eventually became a maharathi, a big gun, a respected party leader for the New Vrindaban men’s traveling sankirtan soldiers. I began collecting $2000 per week, then $3000. My sankirtan buddy Dasarath christened me “The Professor,” perhaps for my skill in map reading, or training up new pickers. Soon nearly all the New Vrindaban sankirtan men referred to me as “The Professor.” When Devamrita Swami came to New Vrindaban in 1986, he dubbed me the “Prince of The Pick.”
After I had learned the tricks of the trade, the necessary detachment from results (it is amazing how much money a person can make if they act as if they can walk away from it all) and oral skills (flattery was a great tool, especially with women), I really started to enjoy life on the road. One year I collected $150,000. I didn’t keep a penny for myself; the money belonged to Krishna.
I won the “Golden Van Award” at the 1981 Christmas Festival for collecting more than any other New Vrindaban man that year. (The women always collected more than the men.) In 1981, New Vrindaban pickers collected $2,000,000. After winning this award, I became somewhat of a New Vrindaban celebrity.
I was invited to write an article—Prelude to Perfection— about how I came to New Vrindaban which was published in the February 1982 Brijabasi Spirit, along with an illustration of me playing the harmonium at the Bahulaban temple drawn by the New Vrindaban artist Krishna Katha dasa ACBSP (Chris Carlson). In addition, I was invited to travel with Bhaktipada in March 1982 to India for the big annual ISKCON Gaura Purnima Festival in Mayapur. I was recognized as an important person at New Vrindaban.
One pleasant byproduct of my sankirtan success was the attention I received from my spiritual master. Of course, I felt he had always given me whatever attention I needed, but now the relationship became even sweeter. I enjoyed serving my spiritual master, massaging his feet and running menial errands for him. I had developed, by gradual increments, a very deep and sincere love for my spiritual master.
I loved him so much that I think I would have done almost anything for him. And Bhaktipada reciprocated by his sweet words and affectionate smiles. He rarely chastised me, but more often he simply encouraged me to do my best, to be all that I could be, to grow and mature in Krishna consciousness.
When I was out on the road, every Sunday evening when the day’s picking was finished, I called Bhaktipada at his home from a pay telephone. I reported to him my weekly Laksmi point score, and also spoke about any interesting events which might have transpired during the past week. He in turn spoke to me about his health and new developments on “The Farm.” He always ended his conversations by saying, “And don’t forget Hrishikesh; I love you!”
Following in the footsteps.
Bhaktipada always allowed the visiting sankirtan devotees to follow him around when they returned for the three-day monthly sankirtan festivals. Here we see Bhaktipada and devotees inspecting the Palace wall and exterior, c. 1981. 1st row: unidentified devotee, the author, Dasarath; 2nd row: Krishna Chandra, Jaya Nitai; 3rd row: Jagannath Mishra, Nityodita. Photo from Bhaktipada’s 1982 Vyasa Puja book.
Books out; paraphernalia in.
New Vrindaban traveling sankirtan devotees began collecting funds for the community in 1973 by distributing Prabhupada’s books at the Pittsburgh International Airport, and at other venues.
Pradhana Gopika devi dasi (Christine Mills) hits up a prospective donor at Pittsburgh International Airport (c. 1970s). She later became one of Dharmatma’s co-wives. Photo enhanced and colorized by AI.
Eventually, the New Vrindaban book distributors (and, for that matter, all American ISKCON book distributors) gradually abandoned book distribution in the late 1970s in favor of picking, which brought in much greater profits. Sankirtan devotees disguised in wigs and non-devotee clothes distributed a plethora of items, such as flowers, cutout record albums, candles, buttons, stickers and baseball caps in return for donations. Bumper stickers displaying the image of the beagle Snoopy from the Peanuts comic strip was a favorite picking paraphernalia.
Professional and college football games were excellent places for picking, as sports fans would pay five and ten dollars respectively for a bumper sticker or baseball cap emblazoned with the logo of their favorite team. It was not unusual for devotees to collect more than $1,000 each during a Saturday or Sunday football game.
Money is the honey
Money was never far from Bhaktipada’s mind and he liked to have huge quantities of it; the more the better. He learned the value of money from his spiritual master, who taught that although money may be the root of evil for conditioned souls, pure devotees fear it not because they use money for preaching Krishna consciousness; therefore they remain unaffected by its evil effects. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada said:
Money is sweeter than honey. [Endnote 59]
Money is so sweeter than honey. [Endnote 60]
“Money is the honey” goes so far as it is employed for Krishna consciousness. [Endnote 61]
Satsvarupa dasa Goswami (Stephen Guarino), an important ISKCON GBC member and one of the eleven ritvik priests, confirmed, “Prabhupada said that money is honey for a liberated soul.” [Endnote 62]
One time Bhaktipada joked about money. New Vrindaban News reported, “The other day as Srila Bhaktipada was looking over the new master plan presentation, Mother Sanatha [Endnote 63] was busily drawing. Murti [Endnote 64] asked, ‘Srila Bhaktipada, is there anything new you’d like to see in it?’ A little smile appeared on Srila Bhaktipada as he turned to walk away, ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Money trees.’” [Endnote 65]
Bhaktipada expected his disciples and followers to give him money, and when, on occasion, they took money from him, he became upset. Gopinath noted in his diary one instance when Bhaktipada cursed a disciple for selling him her house instead of simply giving it to him, “February 29, 1984: Sacimata [Endnote 66] sold ‘her’ house to Bhaktipada [actually to New Vrindaban, Inc.] for $95,000. Srila Bhaktipada said earlier she will take one birth for every dollar she took from him.” [Endnote 67] “March 2nd: Sacimata is pressing to have another $3,000 on top of the $95,000, saying she left a stove, washer, refrigerator in her house. Srila Bhaktipada says, no. If worse comes to worse, put a noose in the oven when she comes.” [Endnote 68]
Everyone had to comply with Bhaktipada’s thirst for money. No one was immune. After big festivals, Bhaktipada routinely visited Prabhupada’s Palace, the Palace Restaurant, the Palace Gift Store, the Guest Lodge, etc., and took thousands of dollars from the cash register and the safes and gave it to his secretary to deposit in his bank account. This practice became a problem for those who managed these businesses, as they could not pay their bills. Invoices for merchandise, books and bhoga, and bills for advertising and electricity had to be paid. How could they pay their bills if Bhaktipada took all their hard-earned money?
After one festival, the managers of the Palace and the Guest Lodge—in jest—hatched a plan to kidnap a child of a wealthy Hindu visitor and demand a large ransom in order to pay the bills. The Guest Lodge manager actually spoke of this “plan” during a Srimad-bhagavatam lecture at the temple. Bhaktipada, who was sitting in the temple, interrupted the class and snapped, “Sit down! I want to see you later.” One New Vrindaban resident remembered:
Kripamaya [John Sherwood], the manager of the Lodge, told a story at the morning program of how, after a weekend during which hundreds of Hindus had made a pilgrimage to the community, Bhaktipada had driven down in his Cadillac to both the Palace and the Lodge and made off with all the weekend’s receipts. . . .
Kripamaya called his story, “The Money is the Honey,” after one of the Swami’s favorite aphorisms. Kripamaya told how he and Garga Rishi, the manager of the Palace, decided they could pay their bills in light of Bhaktipada’s “theft.” They would kidnap the child of a Hindu, then pay their bills with the ransom.
At this point, Bhaktipada interrupted and demanded, “What’s the point of this?” “Simply that the money is the honey,” answered Kripamaya. “Sit down!” snapped the Swami. “I want to see you later.” It was quite some time until Kripamaya was again permitted to give the sermon at the morning program. [Endnote 69]
Beginning in 1980, The Pick became New Vrindaban’s main source of income. Kuladri confirmed, “The pick was Bhaktipada’s number one priority.” [Endnote 70]
Bhaktipada constantly preached to his disciples and followers to surrender more and more to Krishna, to collect more and more Laksmi to help build New Vrindaban more and more and attract more and more conditioned souls to experience the bliss of Krishna consciousness. Although Bhaktipada, over the course of time, wrote a half-dozen letters to the New Vrindaban sankirtan devotees, one letter in particular, the letter dated June 27, 1980, I treasured, because in the letter Bhaktipada mentioned my name and praised me:
To all the New Vrindaban Sankirtan Men. . . .
As you probably know the Palace marathon is on; when was it not on, but now it is on even more. Those of us who are in the midst thank Krishna for it every day. I only wish that this marathon could continue twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, and I also realize that you Sankirtan devotees are out there making this possible by your marathon, and so I thank you just as much as I do the boys who are working on the Palace. It is truly a great Sankirtan effort, because together we are preaching the glories of Lord Krishna and his pure devotee Srila Prabhupada.
So I can simply pray to Lord Krishna to bless you more and more and give you more and more realization of this glorious mission of Krishna consciousness. Please keep up the good work more and more so that we can build Prabhupada’s Palace more and more and get more and more of the conditioned souls to come here and experience Krishna consciousness. . . .
P. S. My special thanks to Hrishikesh who writes me every week with his realizations and reports, and I wish all the devotees would write to me like that.
Bhaktipada’s June 27, 1980 letter to “All the New Vrindaban Sankirtan Men.”
Bhaktipada encouraged husbands to send their wives out on The Pick and once indicated that a husband’s strength increased when his wife was out on sankirtan. During brick-laying marathons, devotees competed to see who could carry the most bricks. When Kripamaya—whose wife Krishna Bhava was a regular “Weekend Warrior” picker—broke the record and carried twenty-seven bricks: 216 lbs., New Vrindaban News reported: “When Bhaktipada heard of his feat, he commented, ‘Just see how much strength you get when you send your wife out.’” [Endnote 71]
Sometimes devotees were not allowed to come and live at New Vrindaban unless they agreed to go out on The Pick. Once Kuladri was informed that one young woman wanted to come and live at New Vrindaban with her children. There was no housing available for her and her children, but he explained that if she was willing to go out on sankirtan, her children could live at the gurukula. Kuladri explained, “We have no facilities available for this woman. There is a possibility however, considering all of her children are gurukula age and would enter the ashram, if the woman is capable of doing sankirtan work, we could consider accepting her at New Vrindaban, otherwise, come back and see us after the season is over.” [Endnote 72]
One devotee who lived at New Vrindaban for twenty years remarked, “If you lived here and didn’t go on sankirtan you were just basically scum. Sankirtan people, anyone who brought in money, they had value. If you didn’t bring in money to the community . . . you were worthless. And you were treated much differently than the others.” [Endnote 73]
Bhaktipada preaches in Pakistan
In 1982, Bhaktipada made history by becoming the first ISKCON guru to preach in Pakistan, a country where 95 to 98 percent of the population are Muslim, where Islam is the state religion, and sometimes Hindus are persecuted.
Karachi is the capital city of the province of Sindh. It is the largest city in Pakistan and 12th largest in the world, with a population of over 20 million. It is situated at the southern tip of the country along the Arabian Sea coast and formerly served as the country’s capital from 1947 to 1959. Karachi is Pakistan’s premier industrial and financial centre, with an estimated GDP of over $200 billion (PPP) as of 2021. It is a major metropolitan area and is considered Pakistan’s most cosmopolitan city, and among the country’s most linguistically, ethnically, and religiously diverse regions, as well as one of the country’s most progressive and socially liberal cities.
Back to Godhead reported about Bhaktipada’s visit to Karachi:
For the first time, a spiritual master in the Hare Krishna movement has visited this nearly all-Muslim nation. Recently Srila Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada stepped from a jetliner’s ramp onto the tarmac at the international airport here and was engulfed by hundreds of joyous Pakistani Hindus chanting “Jaya Bhaktipada! Jaya Prabhupada!” As his car neared the temple in downtown Karachi, throngs of people filled the streets, chanting Hare Krishna to the accompaniment of homemade cymbals and gongs. Flags, festoons, colored lights, and huge banners proclaiming “The People of Karachi Welcome Srila Bhaktipada” added to the festive atmosphere.
Amogha Lila dasa (Allan Keislar), director of the Hare Krishna movement’s activities in Pakistan, explained the big turnout: “The Hindus of Pakistan are starving for Krishna consciousness. As an isolated community in a nation of Muslims, they are deeply grateful for ISKCON’s programs and publications, which lift their spirits and rejuvenate their faith.” . . .
Kirtanananda Swami spoke to an audience of thousands from a stage erected in the street outside the temple. He enjoined them to attend to their spiritual needs and beware of the entanglement of materialistic life. Before leaving for Africa he held ISKCON’s first initiation in Pakistan and met with many local residents, Hindu and Muslim alike.—“Hare Krishna Guru Visits Pakistan, Africa,” Back to Godhead, Vol. 17, No. 8 (August 1982).
Map of Pakistan. Karachi is situated on the lower left, on the Arabian Sea.
Bhaktipada arrested, charged with smuggling.
Bhaktipada returned to Pakistan a few months later to participate in a Ratha-Yatra festival. He landed in Karachi on Sept 22, 1982. However, two days later, while leaving the country for Delhi, a customs official “asked him to declare if he had any contraband narcotics, gold coins, currency on his person or in his baggage.” The official claimed that Bhaktipada “replied in negative.”
The officer then searched Bhaktipada’s hand bag and discovered $1,000 cash and ten 24-karat gold coins weighing one ounce each. He returned the cash, but kept the coins along with Bhaktipada’s passport and boarding pass.—Statement of Seizing Officer Mr. S. Sikender Ali Shah, Preventive Officer, Customs House, Karachi.
The authorities suspected Bhaktipada of smuggling and detained him. They filed a criminal charge under the Customs Act and prohibited him from leaving the country. According to receipts in the Swami Bhaktipada Archive, the coins were valued at $4,500. In a letter to a member of the Islamabad Central Board of Revenue, Bhaktipada defended himself:
That it is an irony of fate or perhaps the supreme test of a devotee that a man entrusted with the task of being spiritual guide to millions of people and who controls the administration of institutions the world over, including Prabhupada’s Palace of Gold located in West Virginia, U. S. A, and who administers funds running into millions of dollars should be charged with an offence of smuggling of 10 souvenir coins, which in fact were meant as an offering for religious purposes and were being held in sacred trust by me in the discharge of my holy functions. . .
I submit that the said souvenir coins were donated to me by one devotee named Leon Lane [Devala dasa, who worked at Palace Press] at New York, U. S. A. He legally purchased the above coins in New York and gave them to me at the airport as I was about to depart for India to be carried by me for the purpose of religious ceremonies to be held in our centre at Bombay.—Keith Gordon Ham (Kirtanananda Swami), letter to Mr. G. A. Jehangir, Member Customs, Central Board of Revenue, Islamabad (undated).
To my knowledge, neither Bhaktipada nor Prabhupada ever advocated the use of gold coins in religious rituals nor were gold coins ever used at religious ceremonies at New Vrindaban. We, his disciples, knew intuitively that he had got caught smuggling. On another note, in 2020 I contacted Devala by Facebook messenger, but he did not seem to be interested in talking to me about the gold coins. Since then, Devala has passed away.
Curiously, a New Vrindaban spokesman reported a very different story to the press. The Wheeling News-Register reported:
The spiritual leader of the New Vrindaban community at Marshall County is being detained in Pakistan where he had participated in the Hindu religious Festival of the Chariots [Ratha Yatra], according to Randy Stein [Mahabuddhi dasa ACBSP, the Palace manager and] New Vrindaban spokesman. Stein said Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada . . . was arrested on a “trumped up charge” as he was preparing to leave the Muslim country earlier this week. The Swami . . . was arrested, Stein said, by a low-ranking Muslim Pakistani customs official.
The customs official charged the American with trying to illegally take more than $80 worth of undeclared gold out of the southern Asian nation. At issue was a gold necklace that the Marshall Countian has worn for years and was wearing when he arrived in Pakistan and throughout his stay there, Stein said.
The New Vrindaban spokesman said the undeclared-gold charge “was used as a sort of gimmick for political discrimination.” Swami Kirtanananda’s detention was “sort of a political act” which occurred because the spiritual leader was “preaching Hinduism in a Muslim country,” Stein said.
He said that when the matter was brought to the attention of higher ranking Muslim officials of Pakistan they were “very apologetic” and have since been treating Swami Kirtanananda “very nicely . . . as a holy man.”
However, he must remain in Pakistan, Stein said, until the five-day Muslim holiday is ended and government offices open. His passport, taken by the lower ranking customs official, cannot be retrieved until then. . . .
Stein said the government of Muslim Pakistan does allow the Hindu Pakistan people to practice their religion, but that the swami’s detention probably occurred “because they didn’t think this visit for the Hindu religious festival would be so successful.” Stein said, “Hundreds of thousands of Pakistani Hindus, perhaps millions” look to Swami Kirtanananda as “one of the top Hindu preachers worldwide,” and participated in his pilgrimage to their country the week of September 20.
Stein theorized that the customs official became “irate” at the success of the swami’s Pakistan visit which included a parade. The Muslim attitude, though the unofficial one, is that the Hindu people of Pakistan can practice their religion as long as their numbers remain “small,” Stein said. Muslims of Pakistan, like the customs official, react to the obvious success of Hindu events within their country in the same way some Americans react to the Hare Krishna property holdings in this area, according to Stein.—“Local Guru Detained in Pakistan,” Wheeling News-Register (September 30, 1982).
Devotees in America and India wrote letters to the Karachi judge in support of Bhaktipada, praising him as a holy man who would never intentionally participate in illegal activities. New Vrindaban also shipped copies of his Vyasa Puja books to Pakistan, which, Bhaktipada later said, helped influence the judge to be lenient in his decision. Nityodita described the anxiety he felt when Bhaktipada was arrested in Pakistan; an anxiety which was shared by all the Brijabasis:
When we got word that you were being detained in jail in Pakistan, it was simply extreme anxiety for us. . . . I was trying to see how it was Krishna’s plan, but all I could do was feel anger toward the demons and go out on sankirtan one day at a time. I called New Vrindaban, and Dharmatma said that you could be locked up for ten years or more. “It’s heavy!” was how he ended the conversation. My mind reeled. . . .
Finally you came back from Pakistan, six weeks later. Sudhanu, Gopal, Jambu, Tattva and myself went to meet you at the airport. You came down the ramp with a big smile on your face, and as I was picking myself off the floor after paying dandavats, you looked straight at me and beamed, “Nityo! You missed it! We had a great time!”—Carlos Ordonez (Nityodita), offering in The Most Blessed Event: Sri Vyasa Puja (September 5, 1983).
Although the incident may have been an innocent and accidental omission on Bhaktipada’s part of forgetting to declare the coins at customs, at the time my sankirtan buddies and I thought that Bhaktipada had intentionally attempted to smuggle the gold out of Pakistan without having to pay duty. We understood that the money belonged to Krishna, and whatever money he could save for Krishna, legally or illegally, was to our benefit and the benefit of everyone. Bhaktipada, we believed, was an acharya, a leader who taught by example.
26 years later, Bhaktipada revisits his devoted disciples and followers in Karachi, Pakistan (2008)
The Citation Line
Some New Vrindaban devotees sold cut-out 33-rpm records while pretending to be radio disc jockeys, while others dressed in business suits, presented themselves as art dealers, and sold cheap mass-produced Korean paintings door-to-door in residential neighborhoods for a handsome profit, [Endnote 74] but most of us raised money by various scams in shopping malls, parking lots and sporting events and concerts. The full-time sankirtan pickers developed innovative and creative techniques, such as the Citation Line, to increase donations which brought in millions of dollars per year.
As I recall, my buddy Dasarath and I invented the Citation Line. We worked a rock concert at the Nassau Coliseum in Long Island around 1982 and Dasa noticed that when he approached a car filled with teenagers smoking marijuana, they often became fearful and hid their joints and paraphernalia. Dasa, a brilliant and quick-thinking salesman, decided to capitalize on their anxiety and began pretending he was a security guard. When he approached a vehicle he walked with a swagger, flashed a frown and indicated to the person sitting in the driver’s seat to roll down the window. Then Dasa said, “I’m sorry, but I have to place you under arrest.”
Dasa waited a moment while the teenagers’ hearts sank and then he laughed, “You’re under arrest for having too much fun!” and he’d pass them bumper stickers through the window and ask for donations for the Nandagram Boys School. The youngsters were so relieved when they realized it was a joke they started laughing and reaching into their pockets for money. After a few concerts we were arrested by Stadium Security for impersonating a law officer, trespassing and soliciting without a permit, but we knew we had a winning line on our hands; we just had to refine it.
The next time we returned to New Vrindaban, I met with the director of New Vrindaban’s Direct Mail Fundraising Department, Bhavisyat dasa (Burton Smith), [Endnote 75] and we designed a citation pad with a cartoon drawing of a police officer at the top. The word “Citation” at the top of each page was misspelled with a backwards “C.” Instead of opening with, “I’m afraid you’re under arrest” we opened with the less-threatening “I’m afraid I have to give you a citation.” There were four “charges” listed on the “citation”:
1. Girl watching
2. Smiling without a permit
3. Being with a pretty girl
4. Other
Eventually other “charges” were added, such as “Having too much fun” and “Failure to party.” The Citation Line was an incredibly successful technique for raising money and we used it at concerts and sporting events and at shopping malls and plazas. I even used it when I worked inside restaurants hitting up diners sitting at tables.
The Citation Line made picking fun, and it increased collections. In 1981, New Vrindaban pickers collected $2,000,000. In 1982 we increased to $2,436,000. In 1983 we collected $3,857,000. In 1984 our total collections were $4,106,000, and in 1985 we collected $5,472,000. Our total sankirtan revenue from 1981 to 1985 was $17,871,000.
Citation pad used by New Vrindaban traveling sankirtan “pickers.”
Bumper sticker printed at Palace Press used by New Vrindaban pickers.
Bumper stickers printed at Palace Press featuring Peanut’s cartoon characters Snoopy and Woodstock.
One New Vrindaban picker described in detail the technique of using the Citation Line:
We’d go to these concerts outside these coliseums all over the place. I’ve done Shea Stadium, the Kentucky Derby, Indy 500, the Detroit Grand Prix, and every major concert tour from New York City to Chicago: all with stickers. Four-by-four stickers that say, “I Love Baseball,” or “Rock-n-Roll Forever,” etc. [We’d work the parking lots] at these events. They’d [Dharmatma would] send 75 people out to do one event and the whole purpose was to get mass amounts of money tax free. But they sure didn’t use it for the people who live at New Vrindaban.
So anyway, the parkers would flag down the cars and direct them to the next spot and we were right behind them. We’d go up to the windows and knock real hard and motion for them to roll down the window. We’d have this real stern look. Half of them would have a bag of grass out or beer and they look at you—most of them kids—and you have this ID badge on you that says “Employee Identification” with your picture. In tiny print it says “Nandagram Boys School.”
So they’d look at you and you’d look even madder at them and so they’d roll the window down part way and we’d lean in a little bit and point at their dope or beer or motion like they’re stoned and drunk and we’d say, “By the way, I saw you driving in here. It looks like I’m going to have to issue you a citation for driving under the influence of [pause].” They see you holding a stack of these stickers upside down. . . . You’re supposed to hold it so it looks like you’ve got a citation pad. So these kids are shaking by now. They spill their beer, drop their dope, the poor guys. So you say, “I see you’ve been driving under the influence of Rock ‘n’ Roll!” and then you whip out these rock and roll stickers and hand them out and say, “Hi, I’m out here today for the Nandagram Boys School and we’re supposed to hand these out to everybody.”
Some of them were high on acid or whatever and they say, “Wow! These are wild!” And we’d say to everyone else, “Hey, you guys want some?” Then once they’ve all go the stickers then you tell them all about his food program.—(They [New Vrindaban] had this one little van that went around Wheeling feeding people. That didn’t cost much. It was just one little kid, Kumar and Tapahpunja that did that program.)
So the idea was to scare them first and then relieve them so they’d start laughing and thinking they weren’t busted and they could go to see the show after all. Then we said, “So I’m going to fine you each a dollar for the cause.” They’d be so happy they’d give money. We’d tell them different things, whatever we were told to say. Food drive, under-privileged kids, whatever.[i][i] James Clay Vaughn, “Interview with Jim Vaughn, November 7, 1985, Berkeley, California,” cited by Steven Bryant (Sulochan), manuscript for The Guru Business, 85.
Not only New Vrindaban pickers used the Citation Line, soon it was being used by pickers throughout ISKCON in America. During one May/June 1983 trip to Los Angeles and San Diego, I was personally requested by Srila Ramesvara, the guru for Southern California, to teach this fund-raising technique to his sankirtan boys.
1984 was my biggest year as a picker: I collected $150,000 for New Vrindaban; most of it in $5.00 donations. That year I talked 30,000 people into giving me $5.00. My average collection was $3,000 per week. I was good at it and I really enjoyed it. I got to travel all across the United States from Maine to California, from Texas to Florida and even three trips to Hawaii. And Bhaktipada showered me with affection. During our weekly phone calls he often ended our conversations by saying, “I love you, Hrishikesh.”
During periodic sankirtan marathons sometimes over a hundred devotees were sent out on the road. The ISKCON New Vrindaban Community Financial Status Report for the week ending Sunday, December 8, 1985, stated that the community grossed $210,047.34 in income during that week. More than two thirds of that amount ($141,681.94) was from sankirtan pickers. The Palace gate earned only $2,536.50 that week (1.2%).
During the forty-four-day 1985 Christmas marathon, New Vrindaban pickers collected an average of $22,071.82 per day, and ultimately collected nearly one million dollars. The 1985 Sankirtan Marathon Final Compilation stated that $971,160 was collected between November 21, 1985 and January 4, 1986. The New Vrindaban Community Income Statement for the Year 1984 stated that sankirtan devotees collected $2,853,899.94, or 71% of the total income that year. Another source indicated that sankirtan devotees collected over five million dollars in 1985. [Endnote 76]
Dulal Chandra, the comptroller for New Vrindaban, confirmed: “I would say that eighty percent—seventy-five to eighty-five percent—of the income was sankirtan, the solicitation of funds by the devotees in the streets.” [Endnote 77] Even devotees without talent in sankirtan, such as those working in construction or the garden, were sometimes forced to go out on “The Pick,” because even a novice sankirtan devotee could usually collect enough to pay the wages for three or four karmi (non-devotee) workers.
The annual Christmas marathon.
Dharmatma glorified the annual New Vrindaban Christmas Marathon in an article titled “The Marathon” published in the September 1983 issue of Brijabasi Spirit:
There have been many great and transcendental marathons at the New Vrindaban Community. Who can forget the great Palace marathon of 1979? And recently, the Dharmasala and new temple marathons? They were all wonderful, nectarean efforts by so many dedicated devotees to do as much as possible to please Krishna and Srila Bhaktipada. By eating and sleeping just a little, and working harder and harder, the devotees felt more and more bliss. During the marathons, Srila Bhaktipada would exclaim, “I wish these marathons would last forever!” He is always feeling the ecstasy of giving everything to Krishna and Srila Prabhupada. This is what pure devotee means—he is always on a marathon. He is fully absorbed in Krishna consciousness, and always working at his utmost to please the Lord. Some of us get a little taste of this bliss of complete surrender during the marathon, while others who are not so fortunate just can’t wait for the marathon to end. But either way, everyone is benefited because the marathon creates a spiritual momentum that sooner or later affects us all. And that brings us to the most famous of all marathons—the ANNUAL CHRISTMAS MARATHON!
New Vrindaban’s Sankirtan Leader, Dharmatma dasa, offers Bhaktipada a piece of cake. Photo from Brijabasi Spirit (September 1983).
This is the big one. It’s like the Boston marathon to a runner. This marathon creates more transcendental symptoms in the devotees than any other. One can experience unbelievable happiness, fear, pain, lamentation, elation, blazing of bodily parts, desire to visit one’s parents for Christmas, desire to develop an acute case of anything that will last for five weeks, and many other such symptoms.
Srila Bhaktipada scrutinizingly studies the devotee census chart each year, looking for more and more names to put on his list for the marathon. He becomes completely absorbed in trying to get us to taste the nectar of surrendering more and more to Krishna.
The following are some wonderful excerpts from letters Srila Bhaktipada has written to the devotees. These clearly show his great marathon spirit.
March 26, 1980: So, I am a very poor man; I am simply a beggar, and I am simply begging you to please go on with this service to Srila Prabhupada more and more enthusiastically. You will be benefited, the whole world will be benefited, and Srila Prabhupada will be pleased. And if he is pleased, we are certainly pleased. Then our life is successful, and at the end of this life we can go back to home, back to Godhead.
June 27, 1980: As you probably are all aware, we are having a great marathon to get Prabhupada’s Palace ready for the opening ceremonies in August. Many devotees are working sixteen and twenty hours a day. Some are practically forgetting to eat and sleep, and I know that you are also becoming more and more enlivened to join in this marathon by distributing and collecting more and more. Actually this is the real bliss of Krishna consciousness. I only wish we could continue such a marathon twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, and some day that will be possible. When we become completely detached from his bodily conception of life we will be able to serve Krishna completely. So until then, we can simply pray to Krishna to please increase our desire and increase our ability to service Him more and more. And I am also praying to Krishna for you, that He may help you to increase more and more—in this way together we will increase more and more, Prabhupada’s Palace will increase more and more, Vrindaban Chandra’s Palace will increase more and more, and more and more people will come and see the real essence of Krishna consciousness.
March 5, 1981: So as I am leaving for India this week I am begging you that in my absence you double your efforts to assist your spiritual master in this mission of building New Vrindaban and Srila Prabhupada’s Palace. Let’s have a marathon so that when I return I can do double the work and get everything and get everything ready for the opening in May. I know I have no right to ask you to work so hard, but still, because I am not asking for myself, I am not ashamed. At any rate, we can try for it, and I will be looking forward to seeing you all upon my return.
July 28, 1981: I greatly appreciate how faithfully you are assisting me in this most glorious mission. Always be enthusiastic to increase your service in every possible way. Give every drop of your energy for the satisfaction of Krishna, and your life will become perfect.
July 28, 1981: Thank you very much for faithfully writing to me and informing me of your sankirtan activities. When I think how hard you are working for the satisfaction of Krishna I become very enlivened. Every day you are approaching so many conditioned souls who are blinded by the darkness of ignorance and you are engaging them in the service of the Supreme Personality of Godhead, thus preventing their human life from being a total loss. Simultaneously you are assisting me to build this New Vrindaban community which will draw millions of conditioned souls to come and appreciate Krishna consciousness and learn the art of surrendering to Krishna. Because you are taking all risks on behalf of my Guru Maharaja, your service is most dear to me. Every day you should meditate on how to increase your enthusiasm and determination for the pleasure of your spiritual master and Krishna. In this way your life will become perfect.
December 10, 1982: To all my Christmas marathon devotees. I know by now you are all absorbed in the ecstasy of getting Laksmi back from the karmis, and thereby benedicting the foolish materialists who have no desire to render a little transcendental service to the Lord. Your extreme mercy is certainly the quality of a first class Vaishnava. Surely Krishna and all the Spiritual Masters will be pleased upon you.
Of course, I can understand that some of you are feeling separation from the transcendental land of New Vrindaban, but rest assured that in truth there is no question of separation. It is just a symptom of your ecstatic love. As you are always thinking of us, we are always thinking of you.
Nor should you allow yourselves to think that you are the doer, and thereby become subject to anxiety and lamentation. This marathon is on the spiritual platform, and therefore completely free from all material inebriety. Krishna tells us in Bhagavad-gita that we have a right to our service, but not to the fruits. And again, Krishna says that in all things we should just depend on Him. In that way we are always above the material modes and free from hankering and lamentation. Just enjoy the ecstasy of doing it for Krishna. That is the art of Krishna consciousness.
So, let’s all follow Srila Bhaktipada’s great example and mood of surrender, and prepare to do our part to make this year’s Christmas Marathon the greatest ever. Get your book bags ready. Find babysitters. Iron your sankirtan clothes. Practice your mantras, and get fired up. It’s going to be blissful.
This great marathon is not limited to devotees living at New Vrindaban. No. All of Srila Bhaktipada’s disciples all over can take part. Just adopt this mood of trying to do more and more service for Krishna. It is a great time of year for rescuing Laksmi Devi and distributing Krishna’s mercy. So everyone get enlivened. Call Srila Bhaktipada, and he’ll fire you up and put you on the list. And please don’t forget to come and join us for the annual Christmas Marathon Festival and Award Ceremony on January 3rd. We can all dance and chant around the decorated Tulasi tree, and offer presents to and glorify Sri Sri Radha Vrindaban Chandra and Their purest devotee, Srila Bhaktipada. See you there!
Your servant,
Dharmatma dasa
New Vrindaban sankirtan pickers out on a marathon.
Regarding the photo above, I have no idea where it was taken—I am not in the photo—but it was published in the September 1983 Brijabasi Spirit (Vol. 10, No. 5), in an article by Dharmatma dasa titled “The Marathon.” Those pickers in the picture were not all fulltime pickers, as I see some part-time pickers, such as Kalpa Vriksa (Keith Weber) and Syamakunda (Steve Silverman). I also see some young girls, perhaps as young as eleven years of age, who did not go out often on the pick. I suspect this photo might have been taken in Louisville during the Kentucky Derby horse race, or perhaps in Indiana during the Indianapolis 500 Indy Car race.
Three women collectors relax in their motel room after a hard day on The Pick. Two Bhaktipada disciples: Maharani dd and Shalagram dd, and one Prabhupada disciple: Gopalasyapriya dd.
Children on the pick
The pick was so important to Bhaktipada that he ordered children as young as nine years of age to go out with sankirtan parties to shopping malls and rock concerts to collect. Dharmatma explained: “There were some younger devotees that went out anywhere from nine years old and up. . . . Some of them enjoyed the experience, but for some of them it was a very frightening experience. They would cry or they just wouldn’t do it, or they would sit in the van or they would basically just refuse to do it at some point.”[i][i] Dennis Gorrick (Dharmatma), cited in Trial Transcript 2, Day Four (March 14, 1991), 843.
One sankirtan women’s party leader, Lajjavati, sometimes took young girls out on the pick. She said, “I did take some young girls out . . . on the weekends when they were off school. I would keep wanting the girl right with me when I worked. And they would just come along with us and they would also do sankirtan, some participation. We tried to make it a fun thing for them.”[ii][ii] Lynn Weisner (Lajjavati), cited in Trial Transcript 2, Day Six (March 18, 1991), 1638. One twelve-year-old gurukula boy remembered going out on the pick.
The first time I went out was the summer of ’80 when I was twelve. I went out with Tapahpunja in a brown K-Car station wagon. We went gas station to gas station selling records, pretending we were from some rock-and-roll [radio] station. Selling records for $10, $15, or $20 a pop, whatever we thought we could get. We also went to grocery stores. There we claimed we were collecting on behalf of some abused local children. Whatever the line was, some child cause. Other times we would ride around in a car.
I didn’t like doing it, so Punja made a deal with me. I was to act retarded. He would pull up to people and say, “Hi, I am collecting on behalf of some retarded school, blah, blah. Would you give a donation?” For every person he hit up while I acted retarded he would give me a dollar toward my score [overall amount of money collected in a day]. I would just sit there scrunched up trying to look like what I thought was retarded.[iii][iii] CW, cited by E. Burke Rochford, Jr., Hare Krishna Transformed, 24.
Sometimes we worked supermarket parking lots, and he’d climb into a shopping cart and stick his club foot into the air. I’d push him around the lot and we’d hit up people on their way out of the stores. We’d tell them we were collecting for injured Vietnam vets. This was before the Citation Line, which made picking much easier. Punja was trying all kinds of ways to succeed at making money by panhandling. I recall we both had a good laugh at that one. It wasn’t very successful, but it was funny, at least to us. Gotta give Punja credit for determination and inventiveness.[iv][iv] CW, Facebook message to the author (November 7, 2021).
Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada indicated that there was no harm for children to go out and beg alms for the spiritual master; in fact, he thought it was the Vedic way. Prabhupada explained:
The children should take complete protection of the spiritual master, and serve him and learn from him nicely. Just see how nicely your brahmacharis are working. They will go out in early morning and beg all day on the order of the guru. At night they will come home with a little rice and sleep without cover on the floor. And they think this work is very pleasant. If they are not spoiled by an artificial standard of sense gratification at an early age, children will turn out very nicely as sober citizens, because they have learned the real meaning of life. If they are trained to accept that austerity is very enjoyable then they will not be spoiled.[v][v] Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, letter to Stephen Guarino (Satsvarupa) from Delhi (November 25, 1971).
But the New Vrindaban temple president, Kuladri, was adamantly against sending children out on the pick, especially when Bhaktipada personally ordered his own eleven-year-old daughter to do so. Kuladri recalled:
Bhaktipada felt that as soon as a child could, he should go out. He or she should go out and raise money for his projects. I was opposed to that, as much as I could be. And I realized that I didn’t—him having the ultimate say, I should try and make the best use of that bad situation. And I requested that they have an organized way that the children go out separately, being accompanied by parents and teachers rather than being sent in vans by male and female [fulltime traveling sankirtan] people, who all they did was raise money and had no experience in children or teaching.
And I tried to get Dharmatma to agree to that, because Bhaktipada didn’t want to hear about it. Specifically, I was very concerned about the children’s safety and the effects sankirtan would have on the children. I felt that when these individuals go on sankirtan, their primary business is to try to raise money, to raise their quota, make as much money as quickly as possible. And they would live in vans, and they would travel at rapid speeds running from one event to another.
And then the environment was obviously very detrimental to children. If a child was given to a sankirtan party, two or three women or men, and they would go to these huge events with half a million people, a football game, the children could be easily lost. There are so many situations in which sankirtan is done with people drunk and doing lewd activities that unless someone was there concentrating that the children didn’t see and experience things, to some degree protected, or practically most of all these things were dangerous and quite often Dharmatma would complain that sending the children out, although Bhaktipada felt as disciples they should be trained to raise money for him, Dharmatma felt it slowed down the people [adult pickers] in their ability to raise money, because it took time from money raising to keep an eye on the children.
One of my concerns was that my daughter was one of those young people sent out on the pick. I tried to explain my concerns to Bhaktipada. He told me that I was a fallen individual, that my attachment to my daughter was my spiritual bane. He said that I should stay out of it. He was her real father, being her spiritual master. My bodily affection was a nuisance to her spiritual advancement. At that time I did not have the power to stop my daughter from going out on the pick.[vi][vi] Arthur Villa (Kuladri), cited in Trial Transcript 2, Day Three (March 13, 1991), 495-498.
Kuladri’s daughter corroborated:
I was about eleven when I went out to collect money. The Kentucky Derby was my first event. I did not enjoy it at all. I did it because I was told to do it by Bhaktipada. That is what we were always taught to do. He was in charge of everything we did. And what he told us to do was what we did. On sankirtan, you go up to somebody and you stop them and you say, “I have to give you a citation. We caught you having too much fun.” You just use the same lines over and over again, kind of robot. You go from person to person telling them exactly what they [sankirtan party leaders] taught you to say. On my best day I made about a thousand [dollars]. . . .
I went out on sankirtan on and off for two years. And there were times when I was out a month at a time. There were times when I would go out every other weekend. It depended on what I was told to do. . . . When they would have marathons and stuff, I would be gone months at a time during the school year. . . . During the last year [I lived] there [at New Vrindaban] I was very unhappy, and I wanted to leave. . . . Then [when] the ashram closed I went to public school. At one point I developed the courage to stand up to Bhaktipada. I had an argument with him. He told me that I wasn’t being a good devotee and I wasn’t reading or chanting my rounds, and I should be going to the temple, and I should quit [public] school because that was hurting, you know, my spiritual life. And I told him I didn’t want to quit school. School was important to me. So I stayed in school. After that I left the community with my parents.[vii][vii] PV, cited in Trial Transcript 2, Day Two (March 12, 1991), 207-218.
Picking, to a great extent, made New Vrindaban a success story. When Bhaktipada first came to West Virginia in 1968, he had only six dollars to his name. Fifteen years later, New Vrindaban’s gross revenue for 1983 was nearly four million dollars ($3,986,584.44) and the gross assets of the community amounted to nearly ten million ($9,791,685.64).[viii][viii] Ralph Seward (Raghunath), who was in 1987 the Assistant Director of the Accounting Office, cited in Trial Transcript 1, Day Five (December 11, 1987), 908. Dharmatma’s panhandling enterprise grossed $3,173,000 in 1985, which was nearly 60% of the community’s total revenue of $5,472,000. One source claimed that from 1981 to 1985 New Vrindaban pickers collected twelve-and-a-half million dollars.[ix][ix] Thomas Lee Dobbs, certified public accountant, Trial Transcript 2, Day Three (March 13, 1991), 714. Another source, West Virginia District Attorney William A. Kolibash, claimed the community collected $17,871,000 between 1981 and 1985.
Working on the East Coast.
In 1980, when I began full-time traveling sankirtan, we mostly worked the states in Bhaktipada’s GBC zone: Ohio, Western Pennsylvania, Western New York, Indiana, Kentucky and West Virginia. We learned pretty well how to get people in the mid-west to give us money. But my first trip picking in New Jersey was a disaster. I’m from New Jersey. I grew up in New Jersey, but I was unable to get New Jersey people to give me a donation. Not much.
My first sankirtan trip to New Jersey was with my godbrother Narasimha Guru dasa (Martin Lyons), originally from England (b. December 1954). He left home in 1976 at the age of 21 and hitchhiked across Europe and Asia to India, where he wanted to find his gurus, and discover the universal truths that transcend culture and creed. He wanted to become a yogi. He lived for three-and-a-half years in ashrams and in a cave along the Ganges River. He took sannyasa from a Hindu mystic yogi and developed some powers of Shakti. The Sanskrit word Shakti refers to the primordial cosmic energy, power or sacred life force as described in Hindu and yogic philosophy. Martin met Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada at Kumbh Mela in January 1977, but he did not take diksa at the time. In the summer of 1978, Martin began living at the ISKCON Krishna Balaram Mandir in Vrindaban.
Martin, the mystic yogi. Photo from NarasinghaSpeaker.com
Martin was especially impressed when he heard Kirtanananda Swami give a lecture at Krishna Balarama Mandir. Martin requested diksa from Kirtanananda Maharaja, and became Narasimha Guru dasa in Vrindaban India in March 1979, shortly before the big Gaura Purnima festival. Narasimha Guru was, however, attached to living at the ISKCON Krishna Balarama Mandir, but Kirtanananda Maharaja wanted him to come to New Vrindaban. So Narasimha Guru got a plane ticket and arrived at Pittsburgh International Airport.
I remember when my godbrother Narasimha Guru first came to New Vrindaban, shortly before the Palace dedication in September 1979. He was a talkative, but likeable fellow, in my opinion. Narasimha Guru admitted this in his homage published in Bhaktipada’s 1981 Vyasa Puja book: “I am a bumbling fool, loud-mouthed and falsely proud and without anything to offer you.”
Martin became attracted to the Bhakti Yoga process, and in mid-1978 he went to Vrindaban where he stayed at the Krishna Balarama ISKCON Mandir. By this time, Prabhupada had passed away, and Martin wondered who, amongst the eleven ISKCON gurus, should he request diksa from. In a Vyasa Puja homage to Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada, he explained how he chose his spiritual master:
When I joined this movement, Srila Prabhupada had only recently left the planet. Some persons were suggesting that there was no need for any other guru, others were citing the need to carefully observe and choose from those senior disciples specifically appointed to initiate new devotees. But how could I choose? What did I know?
And yet, those devotees with whom I would discuss the problem would speak about you most—even those who were inimical towards the whole idea of successor “gurus,”—would give Kirtanananda Swami full respect.
I considered Krishna’s indication, and one day, by His Grace, I was asked to drive one of the cars that was to meet you at Delhi airport. And so while everyone else was rushing around there with baggage and this and that, you were just standing there, aloof, serene and clearly transcendentally blissful.
I could see that you were quite undisturbed by your environment, that you were fully satisfied within yourself. And as I stood there, looking at you, you gazed back at me for what seemed an age, and I lowered my eyes, embarrassed at realizing that you were seeing right through me.
My sentiments told me that you know me and that I could trust you, and I realized I didn’t have to worry about who to surrender to anymore. And since living at New Vrindaban, I have seen that my sentiments were right, for you are cent-per-cent absorbed in Krishna consciousness, in making wonderful arrangements for the service of Krishna and His most intimate associate, Srila Prabhupada.
However, I never expected to live in New Vrindaban. I was attached to (old) Vrindaban, and to my service there. I had some understanding of how initiation was necessary for my own spiritual progress, but I didn’t have much idea of what I owed you, my Spiritual Master. But you tricked me out of giving preference to my own conditions for service, and kindly brought me into your direct association, away from my concocted idea of “service in separation,” which was actually just for the gratification of my own senses.
You had told me that I should try to attend the first Palace opening, and I had intended to do just that, to make a brief pilgrimage to my Guru’s ashram and a 6-month sankirtan trip in Europe on behalf of Sri Sri Krishna Balaram Mandir. I was very anxious to return to Vrindaban, and so after only being at New Vrindaban for a few days, I asked you about making arrangements to return to India.
“Ask me tomorrow,” you said, and so the next day you told me you thought that I should stay for a little while. So a few days later I asked again—and got my first taste of sauce! In a tone preventing further discussion, you said, “I told you that you should stay here for a while. I will tell you when to leave. Now don’t ask again!” And I remember you frying me in Columbus one year later, when I suggested a short visit to Vrindaban.
But now it is all very clear. No (intellectual) confusion remains about my duty (only stubbornness)! But I am slowly realizing that unless I am actually busy in trying to rescue Laksmi for you, I am feeling quite discontent. And when I am encouraging others to contribute to your transcendental program, I feel I want to do nothing else in life.—Bhaktipada’s Sri Vyasa Puja book (September 5, 1983), p. 58.
About a year after Narasimha Guru arrived at New Vrindaban, in 1980, I trained him up on the pick and Dharmatma sent us to New Jersey. We very quickly discovered that the people in New Jersey did not respond favorably to the mantras which we used to get donations from Ohio and West Virginia people.
New Jersey was a happening place, with lots of excitement. People were always in a hurry. Going here and going there. They did not want to stop and talk to us. In the mid-west on the other hand, the atmosphere was more laid back. People were not in such a hurry. They wouldn’t mind chatting with a stranger. But not in New Jersey. I think we only stayed there a week or two, before heading back to New Vrindaban.
The one thing I remember from our trip to New Jersey was Narasimha Guru’s porridge. Instead of kitchari, he made this rich English porridge, like oatmeal, but thick and heavy with large quantities of cream and butter and brown sugar. I thought it was delicious. After eating such a heavy breakfast, sometimes it was difficult to rev up into gear and hop out of the van and hit up potential donors.
This photo appears in Bhaktipada’s Vyasa Puja book (September 5, 1983). It shows the recently-initiated sannyasi, Tapahpunja Swami, offering obeisances to his siksa guru, while Bhaktipada, it seems, chastises him, giving mirth to all. My godbrother Narasimha Guru is the man with black hair right above Bhaktipada.
Others in the photo include: (left to right) Kardama (wearing Palace baseball cap), Acharya (behind rope), Nityodita, Syamakunda, Janmastami (holding black bead bag), Visvadika devi dasi, Vedavyasa (facing left), Dayavira (wearing baseball cap), Naranarayana (from Quebec), Mahabuddhi (Randy Stein, the Palace Manager), and (seated): Dayasara from Australia, Narada Muni (Lenny Rader, manager of Vrindaban Village Estates), Kuladri (New Vrindaban Temple President), and Kumar.
A year after we went out on the pick together, in 1981, Narasimha Guru was betrothed to marry a young eleven-year-old New Vrindaban girl. I will not mention her name here. At the time, New Vrindaban authorities, following Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada’s instruction that young girls should marry older men, ordered him to marry the daughter of one of New Vrindaban’s big female pickers. The girl’s mother was a Prabhupada disciple who received diksa from Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada during his September 1972 visit to New Vrindaban. As far as I know, she did not oppose the marriage of her daughter, as she understood her spiritual master’s instructions that girls ideally should be married before they reach puberty.
The girl was born c. 1970 and her mother brought her to live at New Vrindaban at the age of two years or so. Since her mother was a big sankirtan picker and only visited the community once a month for three days, the girl lived in the girl’s ashram. The girl received diksa from Bhaktipada at the September 5, 1981 Palace Festival. One of my gurukula alumnus friends, who was initiated at the same fire sacrifice, said she was already betrothed to Narasimha Guru when she received diksa. At the time, Narasimha Guru was 27 years of age. Despite the great age disparity, Narasimha was, however, in good company, as nearly sixty years earlier, Abhay Charan De (Prabhupada) himself, at the age of 21 or 22, had married an eleven-year-old Indian girl.
The couple were sent to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where Narasimha managed New Vrindaban’s vegetarian restaurant. As I recall, it was located on a side street off Forbes Avenue not far from the University of Pittsburgh and Carnegie Mellon University. Many university students rented apartments in that neighborhood. Narasimha’s marriage was short, thankfully, but the poor girl was traumatized, for life it seems.
One of my gurukula alumnus friends told me, “She told me her husband used to slap her around because she wouldn’t have sex with him. It’s hard to get these ladies to talk about those traumatic times, even in private. Understandably, they carry a lot of shame and guilt and don’t like being reminded of those experiences.”—Anonymous former New Vrindaban gurukula student, Facebook message to the author (April 17, 2021)
In August 2021, when I was working on my forthcoming book, Gold, Guns and God: Vol. 4, Deviations in the Dhama, I wrote to this young lady and asked if she would tell me her story for this volume. She responded a month later in the negative, but kindly explained that she was not yet ready to unravel all the scars and details of her past just yet. For her, opening up that box is not just a conversation and then it’s done. The memories haunt her and re-traumatize her in many ways. She told me the last time she remembered those times at New Vrindaban, she cried all morning and it crashed her for weeks.
She also mentioned that some unscrupulous people have quoted her, misquoted her, and took things out of context for the sake of shock entertainment. She did not accuse me of belonging in this category, but she explained that she has become aware of the jackals that live by the misfortunes of others, and has gradually become more guarded. She doesn’t want to become a part of the entertainment industry, which results in nothing being done, except people are shocked. She said she’s left with a can of worms that she doesn’t want to open.
She concluded by wishing me well for having the courage to write what everyone else is afraid to write about. She said she was sorry that she did not want to be quoted or written about in my book, but one day when she’s ready to share, she would. She needs that in the healing process. She also indicated that it’s not time yet to tell her story, but someday she would write her own book about her life as a child of New Vrindaban.
Her message revealed to me her beautiful heart and helped me understand the unfortunate predicament of many, many gurukula alumni. It’s like a wound that never fully heals; the pain may dissipate for days or months or even years, but as soon as the wound is irritated, the pain returns. Hence they try not to remember those times.
A few years after my godbrother’s failed marriage to an eleven-year-old, Narasimha Guru married an attractive, slender, adult Bhaktipada disciple, Kinkini devi dasi (Kelly Lyons). They moved to a college town, Athens, Ohio and managed the New Vrindaban satellite center near Ohio University. Bhaktipada named their first child Jalebi, a popular South Asian sweet made from a fermented flour batter deep-fried into crispy, pretzel-like spirals and then soaked in a sweet, fragrant sugar syrup, often flavored with saffron or cardamom. The dessert is known for its crunchy exterior and juicy, syrupy interior. After a time, the family moved back to New Vrindaban.
Our housewarming party.
On July 16, 1992, my wife and I hosted a housewarming party to celebrate: 1) the completion of the interior repairs and renovations on our home, 2) the installation of our Radha Vrindaban Nathabar deities, and 3) the fourth birthday of our daughter Sunita. Our son, Siddhartha, had been born three weeks earlier. My wife’s parents, Mahaprabhu dasa (Rama Krishna Maheshwari) and Palika devi dasi (Puspalata Malpani Maheshwari), visited us from Bombay and stayed for about a month.
My wife and I lived in the house right across the street from the temple, formerly known as the Gray House where Prabhupada had lived when he visited New Vrindaban during the summer of 1976. Varshan Swami and his team of heavy-equipment operators moved the house about a quarter mile down the hill and placed it right across the street from the new temple constructed in 1983. The house had been painted green. Shyama and I rented the house from the community for $175 per month. Fortunately it had electricity and indoor plumbing.
Unfortunately, the house was in bad shape. I had to make extensive repairs, as it had been abandoned for a year or two. I repaired holes in the sheet rock walls and then painted the walls a pastel saffron color. I rented an electric floor sander as the original hardwood floors had been painted an ugly black color. While the house was abandoned, wild animals, it seems, liked to pass urine on the floor just inside the front door. I sanded the floor by the front door many, many times, but the urine smell, which had permeated the oak wood floor, remained. I had to sand the floor by the door down an entire inch before the urine odor dissipated.
Shyama and I also purchased and repaired a broken altar from the Mold Shop, made from light-weight foam sprayed into a mold, and covered with silver plating. The altar had a lovely marble table top where the deities rested with a canopy over their heads. The altar must have been eight feet tall. We had acquired beautiful Radha Vrindaban Nathabar deities made from cultured marble about three feet tall. These deities were very dear to my wife, because her father had a pair of the same deities in his garage/temple at their home on 3rd Road in Khar, near the train station. As a young teenager, Shyama had been entrusted to care for those deities and she grew attached to them.
The original Radha Vrindaban Nathabar deities sculpted by Bhagavatananda dasa (Joseph Cappelletti). Photo from the cover of Brijabasi Spirit (September 1981).
I also purchased a two-foot-tall porcelain statue of the Infant of Prague. The infant Jesus of Prague is a famous 16th-century wax-coated wooden statue of the child Jesus. It is housed in the Church of Our Lady Victorious in Prague, Czech Republic and is revered by Catholics worldwide (especially Polish Catholics) for its reported miracles. When I was a boy living at 416 Riva Avenue in East Brunswick, New Jersey, our family had a little grotto at the end of the indoor hallway with a statue of the Infant of Prague.
The original statue in Prague is gorgeously dressed in embroidered silk garments with handmade lace, studded with gemstones, and embroidered with gold. The infant has 86 sets of clothes which are changed according to liturgical seasons and festivals. On his head is placed a crown. Some garments are made from heavy damask, richly woven with gold and embroidered with pearls. Some outfits were donated by Empress Maria Theresa (1717-1780), the sovereign of the Hapsburg Empire, and Emperor Ferdinand I of Austria (1793-1875).
As I grew up in a Polish-American Roman Catholic family, I had a fondness for the statue of child Jesus, and I placed it on our altar in our New Vrindaban home, alongside Radha Vrindaban Nathabar. At the time, Bhaktipada was stressing interfaith preaching and living, and my wife and I saw no harm in placing deities from Hindu and Catholic traditions on the same altar. Radhanath Swami came to our housewarming party as the guest celebrity and he officiated at the deity installation ceremony.
The original Infant of Prague.
Narasimha Guru gives me the sauce.
Soon after our housewarming party, my godbrother Narasimha Guru entered our house early in the morning, maybe around 8 a. m., while I was sitting at our kitchen table eating breakfast. He sat down on a chair next to me and started criticising our home altar. He declared I was committing a great sin by placing a statue of Jesus of Nazareth on the same altar as Radha and Krishna. It was against Gaudiya-Vaishnava arcana principles and was rasa bhasa (incompatible rasas).
I was extremely annoyed. I just wanted to eat my oatmeal in peace, and my godbrother barges into my house and starts lecturing me! After that incident, when I saw Narasimha Guru approaching on the sidewalk or on the street, I avoided him by crossing over to the other side.
After Narasimha rejected Bhaktipada as his spiritual master a few years later, he and his wife moved to a rented house in Collier Township, near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. They had three children. I taught piano to their youngest daughter, as at the time I also lived nearby in Collier Township.
The author and his piano student—Martin and Kelly’s youngest daughter—at their home in Collier Township, Pennsylvania (November 2000).
The couple were not good at balancing their budget, and within a year or two racked up a credit card debt of $100,000. I couldn’t understand how they managed to do that, as I always paid my credit card debts in full every month. After filing for bankruptcy, the debt was dissolved, along with their credit rating. I used to visit them frequently, as my son and Martin and Kelly’s son were about the same age, and the two boys liked to play together.
After some time, Kelly divorced her husband. Martin enrolled in a few classes in maintaining healthy relationships, and soon began organizing and hosting his own “Man/Woman” healthy relationship seminars during which he taught participants how to create a long-lasting and loving relationship with a member of the opposite sex. Our godbrother Trisanku dasa (Tom Sun) attended one of Martin’s seminars and thought it was worthwhile. I believe Martin learned a lot from reading the 1992 book by John Gray: Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.
During one of his “Man/Woman” seminars, Martin had a fling with a student, an attractive, educated and cultured 25-year-old woman named Elizabeth, and she got pregnant. He was fifty. They decided to get married and raise their daughter together. The two rented a small house in Sewickley, Pennsylvania. I attended several parties at their home with my wife Mary Kay, along with my godbrothers Dasarath, Siksastaka, and their wives.
When Martin’s daughter became a teenager, Elizabeth divorced her husband. It seems many of my godbrothers (myself included) have not had great success in our long-term relationships with women. Around that time, Martin heard Bhaktivedanta Narayana Goswami Maharaja (1921-2010) speak, and became enamored of the elderly octogenarian Gaudiya Vaishnava guru. Martin took re-initiation from Narayana Maharaja in 2009 in Houston Texas, dropped the word “Guru” from his name, and became known simply as Narasimha dasa. I remember meeting Narasimha at a New Vrindaban festival, probably in 2009, and he encouraged me to take shelter of Bhaktivedanta Narayana Maharaja.
Today (2026) Narasimha lives in Houston Texas and preaches Bhakti Yoga. He has written one book, a novel titled Are We There Yet … and How Did We Get Here Anyway? He is currently working on his autobiography, titled The Indian Odyssey of an English Jew. His website is at NarasinghaSpeaker.com
Narasimha. Photo from NarasinghaSpeaker.com
Return to New Jersey.
About a year after my first sankirtan excursion to New Jersey with Narasimha Guru in 1980, I traveled again to New Jersey, this time with my godbrother Jagannath Mishra. This time, however, we had become more experienced pickers, and the two of us discovered how to make money in New Jersey. We shortened our mantra and cut to the point immediately. We also dressed smartly; we wore brand-new, stylish track suits. No one would mistake us for a homeless person. My suit was a dark blue color. (A couple years later, we began wearing cargo pants, because they had many, many pockets.) We made about $2,000 each per week.
When Mish and I worked in Middlesex County in New Jersey, we often stayed nights at my parents’ house in East Brunswick. My Roman Catholic parents were tolerant of my religious views, and I never tried to convert them to the Hare Krishna faith. I had a good relationship with them, especially after my daughter was born in 1988, and my son in 1992. I wanted my children to get to know their grandparents, so three or four times a year, I’d take them on a seven-hour drive from West Virginia to New Jersey to visit my parents for a week vacation.
While working on the East Coast, we met many ISKCON devotees from other temples at big events, such as the Pocono Raceway in Long Pond, Pennsylvania. I remember hanging out with disciples of Satsvarupa dasa Goswami Gurupada, including a Vidura dasa, and one disciple of Bhavananda Goswami Vishnupada named Adi-Purusha. We had a nice camaraderie and enjoyed meeting each other from time to time. We were like a big, happy family. This was a few years before New Vrindaban pickers got the reputation of doing the pick in other zones without permission.
When I worked in the New York City vicinity, sometimes (c. 1984-1985) my traveling partner and I visited the Brooklyn ISKCON temple for their Sunday feast. My Gurupada disciple friends let me set up a little book table with a few copies of Bhaktipada’s new book, Song of God, alongside their much larger book table with Satsvarupa dasa Goswami’s many books. Sometimes devotees and guests purchased Song of God, which always gave me a thrill.
When we worked the Pocono Raceway, and also when we worked rock concerts at the Spectrum indoor arena in Philadelphia, we’d always see about a half dozen old men wearing side caps, a military cap that can be folded flat when stored. These old men, probably in their 60s and 70s, worked the parking lots alongside of us. They would approach a car which had just parked and pass the driver a tiny American flag on a toothpick. I don’t think they needed to say a word. The driver would automatically pull out a dollar or two and give it to the veteran. I assume they were World War II veterans, as I never spoke to them. I’m sure it was good business for them. Each of them made hundreds of dollars per event. I guess they were professional pickers, like us. We never had a conflict with them, as I recall, as there was plenty of people to hit up. We avoided them, and they avoided us.
The Spectrum Arena (center), Veteran’s Stadium (right) and the Philadelphia skyline in the distance. Photo by Centpacrr at English Wikipedia.
“Moonies.”
In addition to World War II veterans, sometimes we’d run into followers of Rev. Sun Myung Moon (1920-2012) working the shopping center parking lots. We called them “Moonies.” They were unwelcome, as we thought they were taking Laksmi away from us, and giving it to a charlatan. Once in the Spring of 1979, a party of Moonies came to visit New Vrindaban. I was a new Bhakta at the time. I wrote about this in Gold, Guns and God, Vol. 3:
During the spring of 1979, some visitors came to the Bahulaban temple and requested a tour of the community. It was discovered that the guests were “Moonies”—members of Reverend Sun Myung Moon’s Unification Church.
ISKCON devotees detested the “Moonies” because they worked the parking lots and shopping malls and directly competed with the Krishnas to take money from non-devotees. Sometimes veteran New Vrindaban sankirtan devotees harassed the “Moonies” in the parking lots and attempted to steal their money with the “change up.”
A senior devotee, Parambrahma (Paul Ferry), took the visiting “Moonies” on an extended tour of the community, while Vrindapati (Walter Parry), an enforcer who worked in the New Vrindaban blacksmith shop, broke into their van and removed the safe from their vehicle. (A few years later, New Vrindaban sankirtan parties also began installing safes in their vans to protect their collections.)
The “Moonies” enjoyed their private tour and departed with smiles and warm handshakes, only to return angrily later. Tapahpunja (Terry Sheldon), an expert “picker” who later served as the leader of the New Vrindaban men’s sankirtan parties, remembered with glee, “The ‘Moonies’ demanded the return of their safe and their money, but everybody just played dumb. ‘Huh? You say your safe and money was stolen? Must have been some local hillbillies. Welcome to West Virginia!’”
This was not a crime secretly committed by one individual; it was authorized by community leaders and enjoyed by many members of the community. Although I was a new devotee, I was proudly told about the theft, even while it was happening. Yet, we New Vrindaban residents never thought we were criminals; we thought we were serving God by stealing from the “demons.”
I was taught that the Moonies were our mortal enemies, especially in the parking lots, as they competed with us for the best spots. Muktakesh (Ronald Burstein), one of New Vrindaban’s biggest pickers, taught me what to do when I saw a Moonie in a parking lot: approach them innocently, offer to make a donation, show them a big bill like a fifty, ask for $40 in change, grab the money and run.
When I got the opportunity to try this, the Moonie refused to let go of his cash after I grabbed it, so I just drove off out of the parking lot into the street still holding his money. The Moonie held on to the money with his right hand and with his left hand he hung on to my side mirror with all his might. I thought I’d shake him off if I speeded up to 50 or 60 mph, so I gunned the gas and zoomed down the road while my sankirtan partner laughed heartily.
But we did not get the last laugh, as a police officer just happened to be sitting there on the corner and noticed the Moonie hanging on to the side of my van for dear life. Within a few moments sirens wailed and red and blue lights flashed in my mirrors, and I had to pull over and stop. We were escorted to the local police station where the cops had a big laugh when they listened to our stories: “The Krishnas ripping off the Moonies! This is one for the books.” The police made me give the $50 bill back to the Moonie, then they let us go and told us all to get out and stay out of town.
Reverend Sun Myung Moon and disciples at a mass wedding ceremony.
A close call.
Dasa and I had many adventures during our time out on the pick together. I remember one time we were working in a town in Massachusetts. I think a suburb of Boston perhaps. We were working a Bradlees parking lot. Bradlees was a discount department store chain based in Braintree, Massachusetts, which operated primarily in the Northeastern United States. Dasa was working the lot, and I was working inside the store, hitting up customers. After about twenty minutes, I noticed store managers wearing white shirts and black neckties briskly striding through the aisles, obviously searching for a solicitor. I exited the store immediately, as I knew it was not safe to remain inside. I saw Dasa out in the parking lot, got his attention, and pointed to our van. He knew what that meant: the place was hot and it was time for us to depart.
As I stepped off the store sidewalk into the parking lot, a store security officer exited the store and yelled to me, “Stop!” I knew from experience there was no sense in stopping and talking to him. I’ve done that before, and they always take you back into the store, into the security office, and call the police. So I ignored him and kept walking into the parking lot.
He wasn’t going to let me go, and he began running after me. I glanced back, and saw that he was at my heels, and I began sprinting through the parking lot, headed toward the street. He was a young man with vigor and energy, but so was I. I ran with all my might, and he kept right up with me, although not gaining much. We were both breathing extremely heavily, due to the great physical exertion. When I reached the street, I ran on the sidewalk, away from the store, and he followed me. He was apparently not going to let me get away. I’m sure he was determined to catch up to me, restrain me with force, and bring me back into the store security office, call the police, and press charges of soliciting without a permit.
Hrishikesh runs from a security guard.
I ran with all my might. It felt like an Olympic marathon. After what seemed a long time, but was probably only two minutes, a blue van pulled up next to me on the street, and the passenger door swung open. It was my partner Dasa! He had seen what was happening, got into the van, started it up and drove out of the lot to rescue me! I hopped into the passenger seat while the van was still moving, slammed the passenger door shut, and Dasa sped up and easily outdistanced the marathon runner security officer. We wisely left that county immediately, and traveled to the next county, where we began picking again.
Thank you Dasa! I’ll never forget that exciting narrow escape.
Dasa and I work a strip joint.
Dasa and I had many adventures together. Once upon a time, while working Central New Jersey, I was driving our van on Route 27 in Kendall Park, looking for a place to pick. It was a slow day, late afternoon. We passed a small shopping plaza with an outdoor sign: “Man Cave.” I looked over toward my partner in the passenger seat and suggested, “What do you think? Should we check it out?” Dasa responded favorably, and I pulled into the parking lot.
Sign advertising a strip joint.
I had never entered an establishment like this in my entire life. But we Krishna devotees have nothing to fear, we thought. Because we were serving Krishna, we believed Krishna would protect us.
When we entered the front door, security was there to greet us. He informed us of the $5.00 cover charge. We agreed and pulled out five dollar bills from our pockets. We entered the dimly-lit lounge, and even today I remember the music blasting from the sound system: it was the song Fame, the 1975 hit by David Bowie. It was, I admit, a good accompaniment for sensual and seductive dancing. To listen to Fame, go to YouTube.
We noticed immediately the joint was as slow as a Piggly Wiggly supermarket in a small Alabama town on a lazy, hot summer day. We later learned that these “Gentlemen’s Clubs” don’t start hopping until after nine p. m.
But since we were already there, we hit up the few patrons who were sitting around the brightly lit stage watching the scantily-clad nearly-nude dancers strutting their stuff and striking provocative poses while swinging on the vertical shiny steel poles. Mostly old retired men. I assume the young customers don’t show up until after work, late in the evenings.
Dancer at a Gentlemen’s Club.
I tried my best to avoid looking at the luscious bodies of the girls, who were exceedingly hot and sexy. I hadn’t seen a girl in the buff for five or six years. I even hit up one of the girls in the lounge, although as a strict brahmachari, I was very, very careful to only look at her eyes. Extremely tempting, yes, but we were there to serve Krishna and collect money for New Vrindaban, not to indulge in personal fantasies.
Dasa and I left after ten minutes. We barely made enough to pay for our cover charge, as I recall. We never tried working a strip joint again, probably for the best.
The winter pick.
Dasa and I discovered that community colleges were good places to collect money early in the mornings, as hundreds of college students commuted daily from home to the college early in the morning, usually between 8 a. m. and 9 a. m. It was a good pick. When a student parked his car, we’d hit him up, give him a sticker, and ask for a donation. We asked for a dollar. Many students gave us money.
One time Dasa and I were working I think in Iowa. In winter. The air temperature was right around freezing, and the community college pick had just begun. We hopped out of our van and began working the expansive parking lot. Suddenly a big gale blew in from the west pushing threatening black clouds across the sky. Within minutes, a deluge of hail and sleet rained down on us from the firmament.
Yes, we wore winter coats and stocking caps, but no gloves! Our fingers became stiff from the cold and even our lips became sluggish, affecting our speech. But we kept picking, as the money was coming in. We worked maybe a half hour then retreated to our van, started the engine, turned the heat on full blast, and changed out of our cold and wet clothes. We thought it was just another austerity from working on the pick. Krishna would be pleased, we thought. Soon after, I went into a department store and bought a pair of fingerless gloves which had holes cut out for the tips of our fingers, so we could still handle currency.
I hated doing the pick outside in winter. I do not like cold weather. Even as a teenager, when my friends came to school dressed in a light jacket, I, on the other hand, wore an immense ankle-length winter coat, an army coat my dad wore when he was stationed in Germany in 1952.
I noticed that when we came back from a cold winter pick into our van, and ate some prasadam, when we went back outside the air temperature seemed much, much colder than before. I surmised that our digestive systems had to take in extra blood which could have warmed us, to digest the food we had just eaten. In a couple hours, after the effect wore off, we felt warmer again. After I figured this out, I ate very sparingly when we were working outside in winter.
We sneak onto a commercial jetliner.
In 1983 or 1984, we saved a couple hundred dollars for Krishna by sneaking onto a commercial jet flight. Only one of us sneaked on, as the other two on our party purchased our tickets. I was in California with Dasa and Mish. I don’t remember exactly where. But we three were on the same party, and Dharmatma wanted us to work a big event, perhaps a rock concert or a car race, somewhere a great distance away, perhaps in Oregon or Nevada. The three of us devised a plan, which worked beautifully.
Two of us purchased tickets and got on the plane with our boarding passes. In those days, the boarding pass was a printed card about seven by four inches which was inserted into a slot at the top of our seats. When the flight attendant walked through the cabin, she could see the card in the pocket and know that we had paid our ticket.
Dasa and I checked in and boarded the plane. Dasa took his seat and I took mine. We put our boarding passes in the slot at the top of our seats. After a minute, I got up off my seat, picked up my boarding pass, and exited the plane. At the gate I spoke to the attendant, “I forgot something at the seat in the terminal! I’m going back to pick it up, but I’ll be back in a minute! Please remember me!”
I disappeared in the crowd and gave Jagannath Mishra my boarding pass. Then I returned to the gate and spoke to the attendant, “Remember me? Thanks for letting me get back on the plane!” He let me board again.
In a minute, Mish appeared before the attendant, showed him my boarding pass, and entered the plane. Mish took my seat, and I found an empty seat somewhere else. The flight attendant never questioned me. Of course, this could not work if the plane was full, but there were empty seats, so we were able to save a couple hundred dollars for Krishna. In addition, this would not work today, as today boarding passes are electronic and scanned by a computer.
A Wild Ride.
I consider myself a safe driver, despite the fact that on the freeway I like to drive maybe ten miles per hour over the speed limit if traffic is not heavy. We pickers nearly always drove a sankirtan cargo van. This type of vehicle doubled as an efficient means of transport, and also as a mobile home, where we slept at night and stored our stickers, cooking gear, sleeping bags, clothes, personal items, etc. When we returned to The Farm once a month for our three-day sankirtan festivals, Dharmatma always had a mechanic change our oil, check our brakes, and perform routine maintenance. But these vehicles, due to their size and weight, were not the most nimble vehicles on the road.
Once, while on the pick, I was driving, I think with Dasa and Mish, through a city in California. I rarely let others drive, except when we were on a long freeway trip and I needed a break. I don’t remember the name of the city, perhaps Los Angeles. I approached an intersection as the light was green. When I entered the intersection, I glanced to my left and noticed a sedan barreling down the road, running the red light, and heading straight for our van. I had a split second to decide what to do. Should I brake hard or accelerate? Neither choice was clear, as she would plow into us in just a few short seconds.
I pushed down hard on the accelerater pedal, but was disappointed at the van’s sluggish response. If I had slammed the brakes, the van would have also responded sluggishly, due to its weight. It appeared to be a No-Win situation.
Midway through the intersection, I glanced again to the left and saw that an old white-haired lady was driving the car, hunched over the steering wheel and looking straight ahead. I think she recognized her error and had slammed on her brakes, but was still traveling at a good clip. When she smashed into our van, we were going maybe 20 mph, and she perhaps the same.
She hit our van right behind the driver’s seat with enough force to push us sideways and up in the air. Our van started bouncing up and down and side to side. It was a wild ride, like a cowboy rodeo rider on an angry bull. It was a trick keeping the van from tipping over on its right side, but after a few seconds, the van stopped bouncing and I got the vehicle to stop at the curb. My picking partners and I were unhurt, but shaken up a bit, and our van had a huge indentation in the shape of the front of her sedan on our left side. The old lady, of course, also stopped.
Just then a police officer walked up to us. He had been sitting in his police car in a gas station parking lot right at the intersection and he saw everything: the old lady running the red light and crashing into us. After inquiring if we were injured, he complimented me, “That lady hit you with a lot of force, I saw your van bouncing throught the intersection. You handled that very well. Most people would have not been able to keep their vehicles from tipping over.” Then he filled out an accident report. If I remember correctly, we checked into a motel room while Dharmatma sent us a replacement van.
It was a wild ride, like a cowboy rodeo rider on an angry bull.
Picking in California.
On May 28, 1983 (Memorial day Weekend) at the four-day 1983 US Festival (held in a huge field near San Bernardino, California, about sixty miles east from Los Angeles), I drove a New Vrindaban traveling sankirtan van filled with a half-dozen pickers and thousands of “I Love Rock and Roll” stickers through the back stage entrance security gate. Pickers and stickers.
I simply flashed my Nandagram Boys School badge at the security officer who was guarding the back stage entrance and announced firmly, “We’re making a delivery.” He let us inside and I parked right behind the massive stage.
The three-day festival featured twenty-six famous bands and performers including Men at Work, The Clash, Los Lobos, U2, Joe Walsh, Stevie Nicks, David Bowie, Mötley Crüe, Ozzy Osbourne, and Van Halen. The temperature peaked at a stifling 95 degrees F, and the air quality was the worst in years, what with pollution and car exhaust blowing in from the Los Angeles basin. The total attendance was reported at 670,000. Two people died at the event, I think from drug overdoses. New Vrindaban pickers collected a lot of money, I don’t remember how much. Several thousands dollars I believe.
The US Festival, San Bernardino, California
While working the US Festival, I happened to observe one of the hundreds of Port-a-John portable potties rocking back and forth. My curiosity was aroused. What was going on inside the toilet? Eventually the Port-a-John toppled to the ground, and two people emerged, a young man and a young woman, both with their pants down. This is when I coined the phrase, “The dregs of human society,” referring to the people I saw at the rock concert who were stoned on drugs and under the influence of the Mode of Ignorance (Tamas Guna).
After The Pick was over (we didn’t stay all four days as we got nipped by security sometime on the first day), we returned to the Los Angeles New Dwaraka ISKCON temple. There, for the first time I met Ramesvara Maharaja, the ISKCON zonal acharya for Southern California. He was a very, very important man, a pure devotee (we were told) who accepted extravagant worship in the temple. He was very friendly to me. (I was, after all, one of biggest pickers on the New Vrindaban’s men’s sankirtan team.)
Ramesvara asked about the US Festival and we spoke a few minutes. He was especially enamored of the term I used when referring to the low-class human beings sunk in the modes of passion and ignorance, addicted to sex and intoxication, who frequented heavy metal rock concerts: “the dregs of human society.” He chuckled and repeated that term several times “the dregs of human society.” He found the phrase so appealing, that the next morning he used my phrase, “the dregs of human society,” during his Srimad-Bhagavatam lecture. Ramesvara also asked me to train his Los Angeles and San Diego pickers in the “Art of the Citation Line.”
My May 1983 visit to Los Angeles was a landmark event for New Vrindaban sankirtan. In the past California devotees had slashed our tires when they caught us working their zone. But now things were different; we had something they desperately wanted: a quick and easy way for uneducated and unskilled laborers to make hundreds of thousands of dollars each year.
The ISKCON-approved guru, His Divine Grace Ramesvara Swami, during a rare visit to New Vrindaban (Summer 1984).
I first worked California during the summer of 1982. In 1983 I worked in California from May until January 1984. I returned to California in April 1985, and then again in December 1987. Some of my traveling partners were: Krishna Chandra, Jagannath Misra, Dasarath, Nityodita, Chediraja and Damodar.
Chediraja dasa
In November 1983, Chediraja (Mark Bass), a Prabhupada disciple initiated in New York City in July 1971, and I did the pick in the San Francisco Bay area. On a positive note, Chedi was a strict brahmachari, dedicated to serving Bhaktipada and Bhaktipada’s mission, and he was eager to benedict the conditioned souls by engaging them in giving a donation to help build the New Vrindaban community. During the February/March 1983 GBC meetings, Chediraja was put on a waiting list to be given sannyasa in 1984, as recommended by Kirtanananda Swami, but he never accepted the sannyasa order. Dharmatma remembered:
He [Chediraja] was always taking the most humble position. His wonderful steadiness in devotional service was also very, very inspiring. All the sankirtan devotees would always talk about how steady he was. You could put anyone with Chediraja. We’d put crazies with him; we’d put devotees that were having so much difficulty, but he would never change. He would always be fixed in his determination to serve Srila Bhaktipada. He would never lament. He would never complain. He would never want to come back to the farm. He would never want to give up his service. No matter what situation he was in, no matter where he was doing sankirtan, no matter who he was with, he would always have the most wonderful, positive, cheerful outlook. And [when he called me up on the telephone] he would always ask, “How is Srila Bhaktipada? I wish we could do more.” He was always thinking like that—“I wish I could do more.” [Endnote 78]
Chediraja was always enthusiastic out on the pick. In a Vyasa Puja homage to Bhaktipada published in 1984, he paraphrased Chaitanya Mahaprabhu’s Siksastaka Prayers and Krishna’s words in Bhagavad-gita:
All glories to your picking-dharma, which cleanses the heart and manifests your ocean of love for Srila Prabhupada in this New Vrindaban project. It is the prime benediction and is spreading your moonlike rays amongst the stars in the world.
Considering my specific duty as a a sankirtan devotee, I know there is no better engagement than collecting on your order, and so there is no need for hesitation. O Srila Bhaktipada, happy are the devotees to whom such collecting opportunities come unsought, opening for them the inner chambers of your heart. If, however, they do not go out on sankirtan, they will certainly get the sauce for neglecting their prescribed duties, and lose their reputation as Brijabasis in good standing. The devotees on the farm will speak of their infamy, and for one who has done big, not going out on the pick is worse than death.
The great sankirtan leader, Dharmatma Prabhu, will think that they don’t want to do sankirtan because of being fried. They should go out and not be attached to doing big or small, but do it for your sweet pleasure. And your pleasure is only to please Srila Prabhupada. That’s what this movement is made of—love for Srila Prabhupada. It’s the foundation for the house an astrologer once said Srila Prabhupada was destined to build for the entire world to live in: The house of Bhakti. New Vrindaban is that house of Bhakti, and my prayer is to be allowed to pick for its continual construction, so that I may be assured a place at Srila Prabhupada’s lotus feet.
On the negative side, Chediraja was sometimes a difficult partner on the pick. One of my godbrothers, who asked me not to reveal his name, told me about his time working the pick with Chediraja:
In my entire life, I have never been arrested by police as often as I was when I was doing the pick with Chediraja. He didn’t have much charisma, and he frequently offended people on the pick. I think he tried to imitate Muktakesh, his godbrother from Buffalo. Mukta was a big picker, he had a big voice, and an odd sense of humor. When we were collecting money allegedly to help Viet Nam veterans, during his line sometimes Mukta would ask the fellow he was hitting up, “Sir, are you a veteran?” If the fellow said, “No,” Mukta might reply in a joking manner, “Do you fight with your wife? That means you ARE a veteran.”
The fellow would laugh, and give Mukta a donation. Chediraja, on the other hand, tried to imitate Mukta’s approach, but he lacked the personality of Mukta, and that got him in trouble. If he made a comment about a man’s wife, the man might get offended, grab Chediraja by his shirt collar and exclaim, “No man says stuff like that about my wife!” He’d complain to store security, who would bust us, or worse, call the cops.
I once worked on the pick with Muktakesh in Johnson City, Tennessee. Mukta was a big picker; bigger than me. I tried to copy his style while we worked a busy shopping mall. I tried Mukta’s line on the first man I hit up, and the man became very angry. He called the cops, and before I knew it, I was sitting in a paddy wagon with two other people, a white man about my age and a young black woman, who was arrested for soliciting her sex trade. During the ride to the police station, the white guy tried to come on to the black girl, and I thought to myself, “Now I have to suffer, hearing this nonsense, because I tried to imitate Muktakesh.”
On the other hand, I had no problem working with Chediraja on the pick. I enjoyed his company. In fact, as far as I remember, I never had any personal difficulties with any of my traveling partners during my entire picking career. In San Francisco, Chedi and I worked supermarket parking lots and other venues in the city such as hotel lobbies and swanky downtown restaurants. Union Square was one of my favorite picking places; it is San Francisco’s vibrant central hub, renowned for luxury shopping, department stores, historic hotels and central public plaza with stone pavement, water fountains, and lovely trees and gardens.
Right around the corner were flagship stores for major brands, including Macy’s, Saks Fifth Avenue and Neiman Marcus. The square is surrounded by high-end dining, rooftop lounges and premier venues like the A. C. T. Geary Theater. I loved Union Square. And the weather was superb, especially in December, when the air temperatures ranged from a high of nearly 60 degrees F. during the day, and dropped to a comfortable low of 45 degrees at night.
We worked Fisherman’s Wharf on the northern waterfront, one of San Francisco’s busiest tourist areas. Souvenir shops and stalls selling crab and clam chowder in sourdough bread bowls were a favorite for tourists. The wharf features postcard views of the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz Island, the site of one of the most notorious prisons in the United States: the Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary. A colony of sea lions lives at Fisherman’s Wharf, alongside the historic sailing ships. At Ghirardelli Square, boutiques and eateries are located in the famed former chocolate factory.
A scene from Fisherman’s Wharf.
Another great neighborhood for picking was the Embarcadero (Spanish for “embarkment”), along the city’s eastern shoreline. It features an iconic clock tower: the 1898 Ferry Building, many restaurants, gourmet shops and a popular farmer’s market. it was a good place to pick. A series of piers offers ferries to Alcatraz Island, science exhibits at the Exploratorium, restaurants and Bay Bridge views. One time, Chediraja and I snuck onto a gigantic cruise ship docked at the pier. It was headed to Alaska. We knocked on cabin and stateroom doors and asked donations from the people on the cruise. Most of them had recently arrived and were still unpacking their suitcases. Of course we avoided hitting up the ship’s employees.
After about a half hour or so, Chedi and I heard the incredibly loud blast of the ship’s horn, or whistle as sailors say. These gigantic horns range in volume between 120 and 140 decibels—equivalent to the sound of a jet engine—and their deep, booming frequencies are engineered to travel over ten miles through wind, waves and fog. When we heard the resounding blast, Chedi and I ran as fast as we could to the gangplank while we still had time before the ship departed to Alaska. Yikes! What would Bhaktipada and Dharmatma say to us if we got stuck on a cruise ship! I’m sure we’d work it as long as possible, but eventually we’d run out of stickers or get nipped, and have nowhere else to go! Fortunately, we got off the ship just in the nick of time.
A cruise ship docked at a San Francisco pier. The Bay Bridge appears at top left.
In November 1983, Dharmatma instructed my godbrother Damodar (Allen White) to fly from North Carolina to California and join our party. Chediraja and I picked him up at the San Francisco International Airport. We worked together for about a week or so in the Bay Area, then Dharmatma asked Chediraja to fly down to Texas. New Vrindaban had a men’s sankirtan party working down there, and they were doing terribly. The two pickers were constantly fighting and bickering and their collections suffered. Dharmatma thought that Chediraja’s presence would help the party to get back on track and collect big again.
During the last week of December, I flew to Hawaii with two New Vrindaban sankirtan women to work the Aloha Bowl. I will talk about my Hawaii trip later on in this narrative. When I returned to the mainland from Hawaii, Damodar and I drove to Southern California. On the way, as I recall, we worked the tourist towns of Santa Cruz, Monterey and Carmel-By-The-Sea. While picking at Cannery Row in Monterey, a former sardine-canning hub transformed into a vibrant tourist destination filled with top-tier restaurants, boutique shops, and stunning ocean views, something happened to me—a coincidence—which (for me) was a once-in-a-lifetime experience:
I hit up a white middle-age man on vacation with his wife and three children and gave him the citation line. He looked at me suspiciously and responded, “You just hit me up for a donation two days ago at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco, 120 miles distant. I hesitated to give you a donation in San Francisco because you’re too slick, too professional, but against my better judgement, I gave you five dollars. But now I know you’re not collecting for a local charity, you’re a professional scammer! I’m calling the police right now!”
Out of thousands and thousands of people, I just happened to hit up the same skeptical guy twice in a week. Needless to say, Damodar and I high-tailed it out of Cannery Row to avoid wasting time with a confrontation with the cops.
After several days driving south from San Francisco, Damodar and I reached Los Angeles County around New Years Eve. We worked the Los Angeles nightclubs and collected donations from couples celebrating the arrival of the new year. On January 2, 1984, we worked the 70th annual Rose Bowl, the oldest postseason college football game in the United States, held in Pasadena, California. Each Rose Bowl game is preceded by a Tournament of Roses Parade, which is one of the world’s most elaborate and famous annual parades. About one million people stood along the streets and watched the parade pass by. That year, Danny Kaye, the famous actor and comedian, served as the Grand Marshal, chosen for his entertainment career and humanitarian work with UNICEF.
Damodar and I first worked the parade in the morning, and then in the afternoon we drove to the Rose Bowl Stadium and worked the parking lots. Inside, the Illinois Fighting Illini fought against the UCLA Bruins. I think we collected one or two thousand Laksmi points. Soon after the game, we returned to New Vrindaban for the big Post-Christmas Marathon Sankirtan Festival.
Vintage post card showing an aerial photo of the Rose Bowl, Pasadena, California.
Doing The Pick in Hawaii.
On December 26, 1983, as noted earlier, I worked the Aloha Bowl, a college football game at Aloha Stadium in Honolulu, Hawaii. The game pitted the Washington Huskies of the Pacific-10 Conference and the independent Penn State Nittany Lions against each other. 37,212 football fans attended the event.
The previous day, on Christmas day, I accompanied two of New Vrindaban’s best female pickers, Sumati and Harinam (Carol C. Bruck and Hedy Fried), on a flight from San Francisco to Honolulu, arranged by New Vrindaban’s Sankirtan Leader Dharmatma Prabhu. This was my first visit to Hawaii.
We arrived in Honolulu during an extremely heavy tropical downpour. We rented a car, and found a cheap motel to spend the night. The ladies stayed in one room, and I stayed in a separate room.
After a half hour or so, I heard a knock on my motel room door. As I was laying in bed, on top of the bed actually, I called out, “Come in.” The two ladies entered the room and explained, “Hrishikesh, we’re leaving this place and moving to another motel. We don’t want to sleep in a room infested with cockroaches. Do you want to come with us?”
At that moment, one of the women turned on the light in my tiny room, and dozens of large crawling insects scurried across the floor and the walls into dark crevices. I reflected on their offer, but as I was tired from our long day, I didn’t want to get up out of bed. I replied:
“No thanks. I’m comfortable staying here. I hardly notice the little fellas; they aren’t bothering me at all. They stay off the bed, where I’m laying; they seem to respect my space. Besides, they live here. This is their home. I am the intruder.”
The ladies took off and found another motel, and I drifted off to a peaceful and sound sleep. The next day—a beautiful sunny day—we worked the football game, passed out Aloha Bowl bumper stickers to football fans, and collected a few thousand dollars in donations, which we dutifully cashed in at a bank for a cashier’s check and mailed it to Dharmatma, to help build New Vrindaban into a magnificent place of pilgrimage in the West. All in a days work for Krishna, in my opinion.
Aloha Stadium
“The little fellas aren’t bothering me at all. They stay off the bed, where I’m laying; they seem to respect my space. Besides, they live here. This is their home. I am the intruder.”
I visited Hawaii twice more on The Pick. One time, I flew to Hawaii with my old sankirtan traveling buddy and godbrother, Krishna Chandra dasa (Curtis Humphreys). In Honolulu we rented a car. To save money in Hawaii, instead of renting a motel room, we slept on Waikiki Beach in our sleeping bags. In the mornings, we’d chant our sixteen rounds while walking along the shore of the Pacific Ocean, or walking through the shallow water, and sometimes sitting in the water. One night while we were dozing off on the beach, a homeless man came over to me, and apparently thought I was a log on the beach. He wanted to sit down on the log, but as it was quite dark, he wasn’t sure it was a log, so he kicked me first. When I groaned, he apologized and stumbled on.
We mostly worked in the Waikiki tourist areas, although sometimes we tried picking in the shopping plazas elsewhere on Oahu. We bought a $25 air ticket to Maui, rented another car, and worked the historic whaling town of Lahaina on the west coast. We also worked the big resorts.
I visited Hawaii a third time on the pick, and after working Waikiki, my partner (I forget who) and I took an airplane flight from Oahu to the big Island of Hawaii. There we rented a car and drove to the west side of the island and worked the big tourist resorts in Kailua-Kona. The climate was wonderful and we enjoyed visiting. We didn’t make tons of of money, but we certainly made enough to make the trip worthwhile and profitable.
Our journey to Montreal, Quebec.
In April 1984, Dharmatma sent about four or five pickers to Canada to work the April 19, 1984 Van Halen concert at the Montreal Forum. At the time, I was stationed at the New Vrindaban satellite center at 1025 Manhattan Avenue, Greenpoint, Brooklyn, New York. I served as the party leader.
On April 18, the day before the concert, we received a shipment of “I ❤️ Rock and Roll” stickers from Palace Press early in the morning, and stowed our gear in the van. I began driving our party of five pickers north on the New York Throughway towards Montreal, nearly 400 miles distant. After about seven hours, we arrived at the Blackpool/Champlain Canadian Customs Checkpoint.
This is a major entrance point to Canada, as all the vehicles on I-87 pass through here. We waited in line in our vehicle. When we finally got to the head of the line, the customs officer looked at us suspiciously. He asked to search our van, and I gave permission. We exited our van and walked into the waiting room, where we sat patiently quietly chanting on our beads for perhaps an hour. Then the officer approached us and said we were not allowed to enter Canada.
What did they find in our van? Our little brass Gaura Nitai deities on the altar? Boxes and boxes of “I ❤️ Rock and Roll” bumper stickers? Five guys with shaved heads that looked like members of a religious cult? We traveled 335 miles to get this far. We’re only 40 miles from our destination! I was pissed, and I told them so. “If you won’t let us in, we’ll just have to drive to the next checkpoint, and maybe we can get in there!”
I should have kept my mouth shut. Two hours later, when we arrived at the next Canadian Customs Checkpoint, the Seaway International Bridge which connects Massena New York with Cornwall Ontario, the customs officers knew we were coming and they denied us entrance. What a pain! I realized these Canadian customs officers were just like the police, always trying to obstruct Lord Chaitanya’s Sankirtan Movement. They, as Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada had said years earlier, were “Maya’s Pigs.”
We continued driving west and two hours later attempted to enter Canada at the next border crossing, the Thousand Islands Bridge at Interstate 81. We again, were denied entrance.
I opened up our Rand McNally road atlas (the traveling sankirtan leader’s best friend) and studied the border crossings to the west. I decided to drive directly to Buffalo, New York and attempt our crossing at the Peace Bridge, which connects Buffalo with Fort Erie, Ontario. This is a very, very busy crossing, with many lanes of traffic, and many customs officers. The Peace Bridge across the Niagara River is one of the busiest crossings on the Canada-United States border. Thousands and thousands of vehicles cross that bridge every day. I figured the customs officers were just like police men. In the big cities, the police don’t care if you’re soliciting without a permit. But the small-town police officers care greatly about that.
I drove south on I-81 to Syracuse, then west on the New York State Throughway to Buffalo. We waited in line on the Peace Bridge for over an hour before we got to Canadian Customs. We all held our breath when the officer asked a few questions.
“Citizenship?”
“United States, sir.”
“Destination?”
“Montreal, sir.”
“Purpose of visit?”
“Vacation, sir.”
“Enjoy your visit to Canada.”
“Thank you, sir.”
We all rejoiced upon entering Canadian soil. But now we had to drive all the way back to Montreal! Another 435 miles to go! Geez! Our original 375-mile trip turned into a 1,200-mile marathon! Our estimated 7-hour trip tripled in length to about 24 hours! We took turns driving on The King’s Highway 401 in Ontario so that I could get some sleep, but we eventually arrived in Montreal just in time to work the concert. Sometimes Maya tries to stop the brave devotees from spreading the mercy of Lord Chaitanya, but the fearless devotees eventually find a way. That was my motto.
Michael Anthony, David Lee Roth and Eddie Van Halen at the Montreal Forum (April 19, 1984).
Our 1,200 mile journey from New York City to Montreal (April 18, 1984).
A national celebrity gives me a donation.
On May 3, 1984, on the evening preceding the 110th running of the Louisville Kentucky Derby, I convinced the famed American ABC television sports journalist, broadcaster and author, Howard Cosell, to give me a $5.00 donation. Actually, it was Cosell’s wife who convinced her husband.
Howard Cosell
The Kentucky Derby
My godbrother and sankirtan picking partner, Jagat Pate dasa (James Fleming), told the story in an article published in the magazine New Vrindaban As It Is. Jagat Pate explained:
Once upon a time, not very long ago, it was my pleasure to pick the Kentucky Derby with Hrishikesh Prabhu. The day preceding the Run for the Roses is traditionally one of festivity and a parade in Louisville. That evening, Hrishikesh and myself were working in large hotels. We were chipping away at the upper crust in lobbies and restaurants when, in the plushly-furnished lobby of one such establishment, I beheld an unusual sight.
Across the room sat a gentleman in a lovely high-backed chair, surrounded by his adorning retinue, and his good wife. All of the accompanying gentlemen wore sky blue sports blazers, beautified by their TV network’s sports insignia, as did their lord, and they paid reverential heed to his every word. Upon scrutinizing that worthy assembly, I realized that before me was none other than the illustrious HOWARD COSELL, famed sportscaster, along with his TV sports crew. Turning to my dear brother and the hero of our tale, I informed him of the great personality’s presence. “Naw,” Hrishikesh objected. “But, I’m not joking, just see,” I insisted. Upon my persistence, he was convinced.
Hrishikesh approached the famed sportsman, flanked by his standing protégés, and fell down upon one knee before him, as if in respectful homage. He placed the Derby sticker on Howie’s knee and recited his divine mantra. [“I’m sorry sir, but I have to give you a citation for being with a pretty girl! Rather than go to jail, won’t you pay a small $5.00 fine for charity and you can go free?”]
Mr. Cosell attempted to appear as if above the whole experience, although his face betrayed his astonishment. A tense moment followed with the Prince of the Pick and the Sultan of Sports-Speak eye-to-eye in the sacrificial arena. Then Mrs. Cosell encouraged her husband, “Let’s give a little,” [Actually, Mrs. Cosell said in no uncertain terms, "Howie, give the man five dollars! He said I was pretty!”] to which Howie nodded his consent. All the other sportsmen matched his five dollars. Hrishikesh thanked them, [pocketing about $50 for one or two minute’s work] and stood.
Howard Cosell and his wife Mary Edith Abrams Cosell (known as "Emmy")
Finally Mr. Cosell raised his hands, stood, and in a stately gesture, spoke, “You have a good scam going here kid, but there’s one thing you’ve got to learn: You’ve got to take the money and run with it!” to which replied Hrishikesh, while executing a classic “Exit Stage Left,” complete with flailing elbows and shake of the leg, “I’m running!”
The cartoon character Snagglepuss, who helped popularize the phrase, “Exit, stage left!”
My Vyasa Puja homage to my spiritual master.
In 1983, I wrote a homage to Bhaktipada which was published in his September 5, 1983 Sri Vyasa Puja book. I meant every word I wrote:
Dear Srila Bhaktipada,
Thank you for being our Spiritual Master. You know the science of Krishna and you show by your personal example how to surrender to the Supreme Personality of Godhead, Krishna. Your deep love for Srila Prabhupada exhibits itself in your selfless determination to follow His order to establish a model Krishna conscious community and erect a transcendental place of pilgrimage where Krishna’s pastimes are displayed in the West. Krishna has chosen you to attract unparalleled fame and attention to Srila Prabhupada by building Prabhupada’s Palace of God, which is causing hundreds and thousands of conditioned souls to hear the holy name of Krishna and the sublime philosophy of Krishna consciousness. How pleased must Srila Prabhupada be! What to speak of his ecstasy when hundreds of millions of conditioned souls hear of Krishna’s glories when Sri Sri Radha Vrindaban Chandra’s magnificent Temple of Understanding is completed.
Yet, in spite of your exalted position as King of New Vrindaban, you remain unaffected by honor and prestige, and prefer to remain in the midst of the devotees, enlivening us by your personal presence. You make yourself easily available to us when we return from our foray on the road, inviting us for dinner at the Palace Restaurant, having us over to your house for darshan and cookies, or even taking us for a dip in the New Yamuna [Wheeling Creek]. How fortunate we are to have you as our Spiritual Master. You share with us many precious hours of your association, and enliven us to work together more and more for the pleasure of Srila Prabhupada and Lord Sri Krishna.
By your infinite mercy you have ordered us to go out into Maya’s camp and collect alms to support our Spiritual Master’s mission, just like the brahmacharis in Vedic times helped support their Gurukula. We never could have done it ourselves, and we thank you for it millions and millions of times. Glory to this wonderful Sri Krishna sankirtan, which cleanses our hearts of all the dust accumulated for years and extinguishes the fire of conditional life—of repeated birth and death! It is the life of all transcendental knowledge, it increases the ocean of transcendental bliss and it enables us to fully taste the nectar for which we are always anxious.
This nectar can’t be appreciated by the karmis, the jnanis, the yogis, or even the devotees who still maintain material attachments, however insignificant they may be. However, this nectar, which is like the ocean, is always deeply drunk and relished by those devotees who have surrendered themselves cent per cent to your transcendental order. (When will such a foolish and ungrateful rascal as I accept your mercy and dedicate my body, mind and words to your service?)
The surrendered sankirtan devotee, under your direction, helps spread the rays of the benediction moon by offering hundreds and thousands of conditioned souls the most precious gift—the opportunity to render service to the Supreme Personality of Godhead, Krishna, and begin their journey back home, back to Godhead. Even envious and demoniac souls who can never hope to utter the holy name of Krishna or understand the philosophy of Bhagavad-gita, can once again be situated in their original constitutional position as servant of Krishna by leaving a small donation to the humble sankirtan devotee. Krishna guarantees that this beginning shall never be lost. “In this endeavor there is no loss or diminution, and a little advancement on this path protects one from the most dangerous type of fear.”
Even those devotees who may not be so surrendered become enlivened to go out on sankirtan for you. How is this possible? The New Vrindaban Laksmi collector is always enthused because he sees immediately the direct result of his labor. Every time we come back to the farm we see new buildings constructed, new hillsides landscaped, new gardens planted, new ponds excavated, new sculptures carved, new paintings painted, new blueprints drawn, new newspaper and magazine articles printed, new television and radio programs broadcast, new tour buses rumbling up the road, new preaching centers opened, new Bhaktas surrendering, and new strides being made to push on (at least in my mind) the most rapidly growing and far reaching preaching mission in North America. How can anyone not be excited to be a part of New Vrindaban? Even new Bhaktas want to go out on sankirtan for you. Bhaktipada, I can’t believe how much you enthuse us to serve Krishna.
Once again, Srila Bhaktipada, thank you for being our Spiritual Master. You know the science of Krishna and you know how to best engage each disciple in Krishna consciousness to produce the maximum benefit for himself and for all living entities. By engaging us in this sankirtan yajna, you are saving millions of conditioned souls, and you are saving us. Please engage us more and more in this wonderful service which Srila Prabhupada has given us. We do not want any recognition or reward for our service. We do not want extra time to spend with our families or a vacation back at the farm, or even the pleasure of being able to chant our rounds peacefully during the Brahma Muhurta. We only want to go out on the pick for you, day after day, month after month, year after year, and even life after life, taking birth again and again as sankirtan devotees under your leadership, glorifying you, Srila Prabhupada, Lord Chaitanya and Lord Sri Krishna, and giving the mercy to all the conditioned souls eternally. Bhaktipada, you are the greatest!
Your eternal servant,
Hrishikesh dasa
Joking with visiting traveling sankirtan devotees: Chediraja, Ramachandra and the author (c. 1982)
Another dedicated Laksmi picker, Harinam dasi (Hedy Fried), wrote a poem titled “Derby Day Nectar”:
Dark clouds threatening any hour—
Forty devotees, full faith in Krishna’s power
Climbing eagerly out of vans,
Dinger bags, yogi bars, stickers in hands.
Karmis with coolers filled with meat and wine;
Devotees with coolers, fruit and buttons to hide.
Trained soldiers heading off to war
To fight Maya’s tactics, big Laksmi to score.
Kentucky Derby, a day to remember:
A New Vrindaban tradition of total surrender.
The 108th year the derby has stayed.
Srila Bhaktipada remarked, great year for numbers if played.
“But since we don’t bet,” Dharmatma Prabhu said,
“All of us must settle for hard work instead.”
Said Krishna to Arjuna, “Your enemy I’ve killed.
Simply stand and fight, your victory I’ve willed.”
Said Dharmatma to the mothers,
“At the racetrack take your stance.
Krishna will shower Laksmi.
Get the mercy, here’s your chance.”
Dark clouds, Krishna’s plan
To increase our desire.
As they rolled away revealing sun
The devotees were on fire.
Teach us, Srila Bhaktipada, to have marathons every day,
Giving up all selfish desires to serve you in every way.
Engage us with all our hearts.
Then eternally from Krishna’s feet
And your service we’ll never part.
—Hedy Fried (Harinam), “Derby Day Nectar,” Brijabasi Spirit (August 1982), 29.
Others hated the pick.
One New Vrindaban picker, Pradhana Gopika dasi (Christina Marie Mills), the least favorite of Dharmatma’s three co-wives, recalled being in “constant anxiety” while on traveling sankirtan. “They say the sankirtan devotees are supposed to be the most advanced spiritually, and they lead a hard life. They don’t get to go home much, and they have to live in the vans and travel all over. It is a constant source of anxiety not knowing even what town you are going to be in the next day, sometimes not knowing when you are going to be arrested for soliciting without a permit.”
—Christina Marie Mills (Pradhana Gopika), Before the Federal Grand Jury (November 19, 1986), 89.
The sankirtan woman, Nandapatni devi dasi, recalled some of the dangers women faced on the pick:
I had been chased and attacked numerous times in Canada in bars. In Alaska I was surrounded by red Indians with knives in a bar—being the only woman in there. In Chicago whilst in Satsvarupa dasa Goswami’s zone, I had a revolver with a silencer on it pointed between my eyes and told that if I rang one more apartment bell he’d blow my brains out, and there are many other incidents, sexual approach, etc. . . .
I was several times dropped off at brothels to sell candies at one or two in the morning, and left there up to an hour or more just waiting to get picked up. There was nothing to do, and truckers would be coming in and out, and business going on. It totally grossed me out and made me a manic depressive.
—Nandapatni devi dasi, cited in “Nandapatini’s Pus Sheet on Satsvarupa,” undated document in the Swami Bhaktipada Archives.
Another sankirtan woman, the Weekend Warrior Kanka devi dasi (Susan O’Neil Hebel), explained:
Between 1980 and 1986 I was assigned to the community’s fund raising activities, sankirtan, doing the pick. I would leave on Friday morning early, and then I would go to different places, like malls and concerts, football games, car races, horse races, Mardi Gras [in New Orleans], wherever there was a large event or a shopping area where there was a congregation of people. And then I would work until Sunday evening, and come home.
Bhaktipada would ask the people to go out on marathons which were held three or four times a year. We would stay away from three weeks to two months on the marathon. And we would work daily on collecting money. After the marathons, he would have a party and give prizes to the devotees who collected the most money. I was considered a big collector. An average weekend was $900 to $1,500. My best weekend was $3,000. Bhaktipada told everyone that the way to his heart was through his pocketbook.
There were many times that I didn’t want to go out. Dharmatma, the leader of the sankirtan, he would call Bhaktipada and tell him to go find me, and Bhaktipada would come to find me and practically force me to go out. Not physically, but emotionally and mentally, he would harass me to go out.
—Susan O’Neil Hebel (Kanka devi dasi), cited in Trial Transcript 2, Day One (March 11, 1991), 103-105.
Part Four: Some pickers I have known.
From the beginning of my traveling sankirtan career, I served as the party leader. As noted above, my godbrother Dasarath was my first picking partner. After a few months with Dasa, I learned to adapt my picking mantra according to time and place, and I didn’t need to follow him around anymore. Then Dharmatma, our sankirtan leader, began arranging other partners for me. I went out with my godbrothers Krishna Chandra, Narasingha Guru, Jagannath Mishra, Janardan, Ramachandra, Kumar, Bhakta Dean, Jyotindra, and many others. I went out also with some Prabhupada disciples such as Muktakesh, Dayasara from Australia and Chandramauli. I trained up quite a few sankirtan pickers, such as Sahadeva, Mathura, (black) Mukunda, Dhananjaya, and others. As far as I remember, I never had a problem with them. They all respected me as the party leader and surrendered to my direction. Here I will tell a few stories about my sankirtan buddies.
Tapahpunja dasa Brahmachari, ACBSP
Although I have fond memories of dozens of New Vrindaban pickers I worked with, I will begin with my mentor, Tapahpunja, as he taught me the rudiments of hitting up people in the parking lots and asking for donations. Tapahpunja was a lover of gardening, a New Vrindaban men’s sankirtan leader, and (after he took sannyasa from Bhaktipada in 1983) the president of the Cleveland ISKCON temple at 15720 Euclid Avenue in East Cleveland, Ohio. One of his noticeable physical characteristics was a deformed right foot; I thought it was a club foot. It caused him to limp when he walked.
Terry Ray Sheldon was born November 2, 1948 in a “poor, working-class neighborhood” in Detroit, Michigan, the son of atheist labor-union organizers. Tapahpunja summarized his life before becoming a devotee:
As a young boy, I had no religious training. None whatsoever. By religious training, I mean no one dragged me from bed on Sunday morning, gagging me with a suit and tie, and forced me to go to church, as was the case with all my Catholic neighbors. . . . [My parents] poo-pooed religion as pie in the sky, “The opiate of the masses and brainwashing.” . . . So instead of hearing about Luke and Matthew, I was absorbed in hearing about revolutionaries, picket lines and layoffs. . . . I was encouraged to “think for yourself and be an individual.” . . .
After high school came college—fertile ground for the brewing anti-war movement, which I embraced whole-heartedly. I devoted full time to lecturing, writing and agitating in general. . . . By day there was speaking and rock throwing, and by night intoxication and women. . . . I naturally migrated to where this lifestyle was vigorously thriving, i.e., the Haight-Ashbury. . . . In such an environment I met Lord Krishna’s devotees. . . . We mostly ignored them. . . . I considered them charitable but pesky. . . . I signed off Krishna Consciousness as a cult of tricksters. . . .
We [the anti-Vietnam war agitators] wanted a quick revolution. Win and enjoy! We had our youthful passion, but they [the Establishment] had all the guns. A life of court cases and jail sentences seemed like a lot to pay for “the good of the people.” . . . I was miserably frustrated and paranoid. . . . So after a last stint in jail, I left the city armed with books on self-realization, mysticism, astrology and gardening. I headed for the hills to find out who I really was, and what was my goal in life. . . .[ii]
Tapahpunja once told me that during this time in his life he dug out a tunnel in the ground in a secluded place in a Michigan National Forest and lived in the hole like a hippie hobbit. He continued:
In several years of roving around, and after some close calls with death and imprisonment, . . . I began to pray for some direction. . . . Krishna very kindly sent me a devotee who patiently sat with me by the fireside [at my hobbit hole in the Michigan National Forest] and explained Krishna Conscious philosophy. . . . His words bathed my tired mind. We lived together in the forest for several weeks and he induced me to chant. I felt so relaxed and satisfied in his company. . . . “You should go to New Vrindaban and grow vegetables for Krishna!” he exclaimed.[iii]
Terry joined ISKCON at the Detroit temple, and after a few months, he moved to New Vrindaban. He was initiated in October 1974. In Sanskrit, tapah refers to “austerities and penances,” and punja means “heaps” or “volumes of pious activities.”[i] The name “Tapahpunja,” therefore, means “One who serves the Lord, who performs heaps, or volumes of austerities and pious activities.”
Tapahpunja admired Kirtanananda Swami and developed a strong emotional attachment for his siksa guru. For a few years he served Bhaktipada in Buffalo, New York and Columbus, Ohio. (Both were New Vrindaban satellite centers). Tapahpunja exhibited his leadership abilities by becoming an expert sankirtan “picker” and party leader, renowned for his ability to avoid detection by the police. He also served as the men’s sankirtan leader (1979-1980). Some affectionately called him “Mr. Scam Kirtan.”[iv]
Tapahpunja was dedicated to Bhaktipada’s mission and he believed New Vrindaban would become the saving grace of civilization when World War III, which Prabhupada predicted, would destroy human society as we know it. During such a nuclear winter, the government would break down and anarchy would prevail. In such a catastrophic scenario, he believed, hundreds of thousands of displaced people would take shelter at ISKCON farm communities, such as New Vrindaban, where the economy was (in theory, at least) based on land and cows.
After Bhaktipada awarded him sannyasa in 1983, Tapahpunja was sent to Cleveland ISKCON to serve as the temple president. He established a Food For Life prasadam distribution program which was so successful that the Cleveland City Council awarded him grant money to fund the program. One devotee from the Cleveland suburb of Euclid, Mother Draupadi (Bernadette Hodas), remembered Tapahpunja, “He conducted the [temple] programs. He worked outside a lot. He was very busy. He was always busy. . . . [Regarding Tapahpunja’s character and honesty: it was] the highest. He was very, very good to us. He was very sincere. He treated us with a lot of respect.”[i]
Tapahpunja Swami and Radhanath Swami at the New Vrindaban Temple of Understanding.
When Bhaktipada was assaulted and nearly killed by a visiting deranged devotee, Triyogi dasa (Michael Shockman), on October 27, 1985, Tapahpunja was devasted. Bhaktipada’s near death had a very dramatic emotional impact on his life. His earlier fears about Bhaktipada’s safety from hearing threats from Sulochan were brought to life. He said that he felt helpless and paralyzed with indecision about his future if Bhaktipada should die. Tapahpunja stood over Bhaktipada’s bed at Allegheny General Hospital in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania for days watching his siksa guru struggle for life, realizing that his life, without Bhaktipada’s guidance, was meaningless. Tapahpunja resolved that should Bhaktipada wake from his coma that he would protect him with his life.
Tapahpunja assisted in the conspiracy to murder Sulochan dasa (Steven Bryant)—who New Vrindaban authorities suspected was working in conjunction with Triyogi—by offering to help organize security meetings (October, November and December, 1985), networking with and attempting to recruit California ksatriyas to his cause (January 1986), as well as helping to coordinate the New Vrindaban surveillance teams in Michigan, Ohio and West Virginia (February). He also delivered funds to Tirtha for surveillance expenses.
Later, after the murder of Sulochan dasa on May 22, 1986, Tapahpunja helped secure several thousand dollars so that he, and Tirtha and his family, could purchase airline tickets, leave the United States, and hide from United States law enforcement agents in India. In early 1986 he had a sexual relationship with a new Bhaktin, Cindy Shaffer, who was later initiated by Bhaktipada as Rukmini devi dasi, but this was not revealed until later.
Tapahpunja was arrested in Kent, Ohio, along with Sulochan’s murderer Tirtha dasa (Thomas Drescher) and locked up in jail. Radhanath Swami delivered his bail money to the Cleveland ISKCON temple, and Tapahpunja was released on bail. Soon he disappeared entirely. Tapahpunja, in disguise, appeared at ISKCON Inis Rath, located on an island on Loch Erne, in County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland, and introduced himself as “Ganga dasa.” Prithu dasa (Peter Brinkman), the temple president of Inis Rath ISKCON, recalled:
I immediately asked him [Tapahpunja] to come in my office. And as soon as he sat down, I presented to him that, “You [are] presenting yourself under the wrong name, you are from New Vrindaban. I know that you must be involved with the killing of Sulochan,” because that [the murder] was on everybody’s mind in our movement, this murder case. . . . I must have taken him by surprise, because he immediately said, “Yes, I engineered it.”
I was very surprised that he would say that, and so immediately I said to him, “Since when do we take the law in our own hands?” He said, “It was completely Vedic.” . . . When I heard, “It was completely Vedic,” I was kind of really fed up with the situation. . . . He said, “He [Sulochan had] offended Bhaktipada.”
Prithu ordered Tapahpunja to leave immediately. Tapahpunja flew to Singapore, then Australia, then India, where he went by the name “Kuruksetra dasa.” After leaving India, Tapahpunja settled in Malaysia, where he once again donned his sannyasa garb and resumed using his name “Tapahpunja Swami.” He served at Bhaktipada’s temple in Penang. During this time, he had an illicit relationship with a Chinese woman.
Tapahpunja was finally apprehended on June 14, 1990 in the Malaysian capital of Kuala Lampur by U. S. Marshals from Hawaii and brought back to the United States to face trial. He served five years in prison. Upon his release in 1998, he came back to New Vrindaban and married a Prabhupada disciple who had lived at New Vrindaban in the early 1970s—Kamalavati dasi (Elicia Heller). During the late 1990s and early 2000s, I had many friendly talks with Tapahpunja and Kamalavati during my visits to the community.
Tapahpunja took charge of about twelve acres of New Vrindaban land to establish his nonprofit “Small Farm Training Center and Organic Garden.” Gardening was one of Tapahpunja’s great loves.
His Holiness Tapahpunja Swami (c. 1996)
Sundarakar dasa, ACBSP
Strictly speaking, I never went out on the pick with Sundarakar, but I was a member of his picking party during the 1980 St. Patrick’s Day pick in Savannah, Georgia, as described earlier, so I include him here. Stephen Justin Fitzpatrick (December 12, 1954–March 9, 2017) grew up in Vermont. After he met the Hare Krishna people, he took initiation in Buffalo, New York in May 1975. He married Premamanjari devi dasi (Patricia), who was initiated a year after him (May 1976), also in Buffalo. She was tall, blonde, attractive, fair-skinned, and a big picker, and I believe she served for several years on full-time New Vrindaban sankirtan. In 1980, and probably before and after, Sundarakar served as president of Cleveland ISKCON.
Sometime in the early 1980s, the couple moved to New Vrindaban and Sundarakar served as manager of Palace Press. In addition to printing Bhaktipada’s books—Song of God, Christ and Krishna and Eternal Love—and Prabhupada’s books—The Bhagavat Dharma Discourses and Dialectical Spiritualism—he printed bumper stickers and hats for the traveling pickers. He printed millions of stickers on the Palace Press four-color press.
No other commercial printer would print these stickers, which featured images of the cartoon character Snoopy, and many other stickers with copyrighted names and logos of professional and college football and baseball teams. This was illegal and no other printer would print these images without paying royalties to the copyright owners, but Sundarakar printed them anyway, to help build New Vrindaban into a holy place of pilgrimage in the West and spread Krishna consciousness throughout the land.
Sundarakar in prison. But on May 24, 1990, a federal grand jury returned an eleven-count indictment charging Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada with racketeering: conspiring to murder, running a fraudulent charity scam, mail fraud, and the kidnapping of Hayagriva’s eldest son in 1979. Also named in the indictment were Terry Sheldon (Tapahpunja); Steven Fitzpatrick (Sundarakar); New Vrindaban Community, Inc.; Govardhan, Inc. (also known as the Govardhan Dairy, Inc.); and the Cathedral of Healing, Inc.
Sundarakar was convicted on the racketeering charges, printing copyrighted images and logos without paying royalties to the copyright owners. He spent some time in prison. The New Vrindaban sankirtan leader, Dharmatma dasa (Dennis Gorrick), also spent a year in prison for copyright infringement, and Tapahpunja (Terry Sheldon) was imprisoned for five years due to his involvement in the 1985-1986 conspiracy to murder Sulochan dasa (Steven Bryant). Bhaktipada was confined to house arrest for two years.
However at great expense, Harvard University professor attorney Alan Dershowitz presented oral arguments in Bhaktipada’s defense before a three-judge panel of the 13th Circuit Court in Charleston, South Carolina on June 18, 1992. Attorneys for Tapahpunja Swami and Sundarakar also presented their arguments. On July 1, 1993, the Fourth U. S. Circuit Court of Appeals in Richmond, Virginia overturned the 1991 Martinsburg West Virginia conviction on the basis of irrelevant testimony being introduced which may have swayed the jury.
After being discharged from prison, Sundarakar moved back to his home state, Vermont, and lived in a picturesque small town of about 1,200 people: Townshend, set amongst the rural hills, mountains, rivers and meadows in the southeast corner of the Green Mountain State. I believe Townshend is where he was born and raised.
Years later, I sent Sundarakar (and others) a copy of my obituary for Swami Bhaktipada by email. (You can read my obituary at The Myth and the Man.) Sundarakar responded:
September 28, 2011
Hare Krsna HD [Henry Doktorski/Hrishikesh dasa]
We take the gifts we [were] given, leave the wrappings & ribbons & bows to the trash, and move on. I appreciate your music, your verve and the special place you hold in trying to make this right. My personal sense (w/guidance from Gita) is take the fire and leave the smoke.
It is the nature of this world to always have some fault. It is based on a faulty conception. Who can know? Who can know what each individual soul needs to experience, until we realize the futility of existence apart from God, the conductor?
I would say our interactions with one another may be like food. We savor its flavors and freshness, gather some nourishment from it and pass out the waste. We need not spend too much time trying to dissect yesterday’s garbage.
Pray to fill ourselves with awareness and love today this moment and everything can be seen in harmony.
I have a sister who has a very, very different conception of my father and mother. Sometimes I wonder if we grew up in the same household. I cannot deny or ridicule her position though it is quite different from mine. That path is for her steps alone.
Hope you are well and the sound of the fifth note is resonating in your heart. Surely there is an Almighty Father who lovingly guides each lost child back home, however painful that journey may be.
All glories to Nrsimhadeva. Prahlada finds joy in Him alone. (You should record this again, it has some sakti.)
[Author’s aside: Here, Sundarakar speaks of my musical composition Prayers to Lord Nrsimhadeva, a setting of the English translation by Umapati Swami of Jayadeva Goswami’s Sanskrit poem from Sri dasavatara-stotra which was sung at the New Vrindaban morning service with organ and orchestra accompaniment from 1988 to 1994.]
Thanks for the nectar.
Jaya Radhe Jaya Krsna Jaya Vrindaban
Sundarakara das
Sundarakar (Stephen Fitzpatrick) at Palace Press. Photo from Brijabasi Spirit (March 1984).
Krishna Chandra dasa
Krishna Chandra dasa (Curtis Humphreys) was educated and intellectual, and he had a dry sense of humor. He was tall and heavy set, and played football in high school. In a letter to Bhaktipada, he explained, “In the past I have acted like a pig, and even idolized a pigskin football, but scoring touchdowns does not compare to offering one flower at your lotus feet. When the foolish noise of the crowd subsides, the scores and heroes of the game are soon forgotten after so much time and anxiety. But realizations of eternity and the gates of heaven open by sincere service to you. I pray that someday I may become qualified to offer some little service to please you or assist you in completing your mission. Although my youth has been destroyed in mindless pursuits for self-aggrandizement, I am still hoping that somehow I will muster up the sincerity to attempt this Bhakti Yoga process of love of Krishna.”—Bhakta Curt, homage published in Bhaktipada’s 1982 Vyasa Puja book.
Curtis came to New Vrindaban in 1981, and took diksa late in 1982 or early in 1983. I liked him a lot. One summer morning, while doing the pick in Maine, we parked our van in an empty beach parking lot. We were sitting in our van chanting our rounds, minding our own business, when a convertible car pulled into the parking lot, and stopped in front of us. A young man was driving, and a young woman sat in the passenger seat.
He asked us, “You guys want a blow job? Only twenty dollars!”
I was speechless. This was totally unexpected. But Krishna Chandra didn’t miss a beat. He responded immediately, “No thanks. We’re celibate monks!’
The fellow drove off in hopes, I assume, of finding more agreeable customers.
Krishna Chandra and I traveled to California in June 1982 to work the 82nd annual U. S. Open Golf Tournament which was held at Pebble Beach Golf Course in Monterey County. Opened in 1919, Pebble Beach Golf Links has been described as one of the most beautiful golf courses in the world. It hugs the rugged California coastline, and has gorgeous views of the Pacific Ocean. Golf Digest magazine selected it as the number one golf course in America. Greens fees are among the highest in the world. When Krishna Chandra and I worked this event, Tom Watson—the number one player in the world according to McCormack’s World Golf Rankings, won the tournament, two strokes ahead of runner-up Jack Nicklaus.
During our 1982 trip to California, Krishna Chandra and I also worked the fourth annual Gilroy Garlic Festival during the last weekend of July. It is billed as a celebration of tasty garlicky food, live entertainment, cooking competitions, and community pride. Gilroy is a city in Santa Clara County in the midst of California’s Central Valley agricultural region, located thirty miles south of San Jose. Gilroy is regarded as “The Garlic Capital of the World.” Every year, 100 million pounds of garlic are produced in this region. During our breaks from picking, Krishna Chandra and I tasted some of the vegetarian delicacies sold by vendors, such as garlic French fries, and the famous garlic-infused ice cream.
After a few years, Krishna Chandra left his sankirtan service and began serving as a teacher at New Vrindaban’s school for boys. He appears in a photograph taken at the dedication of New Nandagram at Wilson Valley in November 1982.
Swami Bhaktipada, teachers—including headmaster Sri-Galim (Gary Gardner)—and students at the gala open house festival at New Nandagram (c. November 1982). Krishna Chandra appears on the far right, cleaning his eye glasses.
Some years later, when I returned to New Vrindaban for one of our monthly three-day sankirtan festivals, I noticed Krishna Chandra was gone. I inquired about him, and I was told, “Krishna Chandra went nuts. I think he stopped taking his meds. He disappeared one day from the gurukula. We found him naked in the woods. He had painted his genitals blue. After that, we took him to the Wheeling Greyhound bus station.”
I was quite surprised. He always seemed so level headed. I had no idea he took medications for psychosis.
Kumar dasa
Craig M. Thompson grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and first visited New Vrindaban in 1977 or early in 1978. He took diksa and the name Kumar dasa at a Christmas Day fire sacrifice at the Bahulaban temple in 1978. In a homage published in Bhaktipada’s 1983 Vyasa Puja book, Kumar remembered the first time he met his spiritual master, Kirtanananda Maharaja:
I had come to a Sunday feast in New Vrindaban. Radhanath [dasa Brahmachari] had been showing me around the Holy Dhama. He introduced me to devotees, showed me the shops and told me about Krishna and Krishna’s pure devotee.
Later on that evening, as I was about to leave, Radhanath told me that I could meet you and he insisted that I do just that. We walked up to your cabin, the one just above the Bahulaban temple. I was thinking how renounced you were. Being the leader of such a large community, which owned many larger houses, but here you were living in a little old cabin on the side of a hill.
I was a little nervous about going inside, but Radhanath reassured me it was okay. I guess this was due to being so sinful, that I was afraid that I would be exposed. Actually, the spiritual master has that ability. Due to his connection with Supersoul, and due to the spiritual master’s compassion on the fallen spirit souls, he takes all risks to lead everyone back to Godhead.
We went inside; you were being massaged, and some devotees were talking with you, about four or five of them. It was very intimate; the atmosphere in that little cabin seemed very spiritual.
Radhanath introduced me to you, and you were very nice to me. Then you asked, “Are you going to stay until tomorrow?” Or maybe you told me to stay. But it didn’t matter because I could tell that you wanted me to. In reply I said that I had to be at work in the morning. Then you said, “How important is your job?”
Being very puffed up, I thought that my job was important, but the way you asked me made it seem insignificant. Trying to act as spiritual as possible, I said that it wasn’t very important, and that to miss a day would be okay.
Actually, I didn’t like to miss work, but somehow or other I wanted to please you; this must have been due to Krishna’s arrangement. Because it says in the scripture that “Due to the causeless mercy of Krishna one gets guru, and due to the mercy of guru one gets Krishna.”
Kumar dasa and Bhaktipada, in the New Vrindaban Mold Shop. Photo from Bhaktipada’s Vyasa Puja book (September 6, 1982).
I went out on the pick with Kumar for about a month, I think in 1981. We worked supermarket and department store parking lots mostly in the states in Bhaktipada’s GBC zone. Kumar was not a big picker, and didn’t want to be out on the road living in a van. Within a short time, he moved back to New Vrindaban permanently and took charge of the Mold Shop located on the first floor of the utility building at Bahulaban. Soon after, he started the New Vrindaban-based company Desire Tree which manufactured and sold cultured marble deities and altars to ISKCON temples, and to devotees and Life Members around the world.
The Mold Shop was created a few years earlier by Sudhanu dasa (George Weisner), who was originally from Newark, New Jersey. He took diksa in Boston (July 1971). Sudhanu explained how the cast pieces in the Mold Shop were created for Prabhupada’s Palace of Gold, “First Srila Bhaktipada and I would consult on an idea for an architectural mold. Then I’d carve a model from clay, wood, glass, or marble; we even used plastic sometimes and from the model I’d design a production mold out of rubber or fiberglass. Then the casting could begin, mostly in concrete for the Palace. On the average the whole process took from three to five weeks. Of course, a piece with many components would take longer. The central ornament inside the main dome, with 4,200 separate cast pieces. took months to create.”—Dravida dasa, “The People Who Built the Palace,” Back To Godhead, Vol. 16, No. 7 (July 1981)
When Kumar and I went out on the pick, he had digestive difficulties during our first week on the road. For a few hours daily, he’d get a belly ache from gas pains. Finally, he realized what was creating his discomfort and he chastised me, “Hrishikesh, you don’t know how to cook our kitchari properly! You’re supposed to SOAK THE MUNG BEANS IN WATER OVERNIGHT!”
At the time, I did not know I was supposed to soak the beans overnight. I just added the dry beans into the pot with the rice, and when the water boiled away, I’d serve the kitchari. Eating half-cooked beans didn’t bother me too much, although it gave me gas. Yes, the kitchari was crunchier than Tapahpunja’s kitchari, but I thought it was alright. In any case, after Kumar notified me of the correct way to prepare dried beans, I dutifully began soaking the beans overnight before cooking, and Kumar’s digestive problems were relieved.
As I recall, Kumar and his wife Sita Love (Shannon) separated in 1993. Kumar moved back to his hometown of Pittsburgh Pennsylvania and established himself as a professional photographer. His website is Craig Thompson Photography. In 1993 I hired him to take some photos of me for my A Classical Christmas CD cover, and also in 1996 and 1998 when I performed with the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. Craig’s wife remained at New Vrindaban with her two sons for another decade or so. Their oldest son and my son were about the same age, and the boys sometimes played together in my back yard in North Fayette Township, Pennsylvania.
Shannon remarried on October 10, 2015. I played the pipe organ for her wedding ceremony, which was held at Old St. Luke’s Church in Carnegie, Pennsylvania.
Craig Thompson, Facebook photo (posted April 27, 2018).
Jagannath Mishra dasa (James Michael Bulsa) (June 14, 1956-April 26, 2022) grew up in Parma, a suburb of Cleveland Ohio. Soon after graduating from Normandy High School in 1974, he left home, moved to California, and became a hippie. He told me he lived in a hollow redwood tree in the mountains near Santa Cruz. Once a week, James hitchhiked to the Santa Cruz pier, where he spent the day panhandling, begging donations from tourists. Then he’d purchase groceries and marijuana, and return to his hollow tree in the forest.
James was friends with Chakradhari (Charles St. Dennis), a Prabhupada disciple who lived in Santa Cruz and made his living by buying and selling recreational drugs near the pier. When James came to town, the two hung out together and smoked weed. Years later, James told me:
Chakradhari was one of my buddies in Santa Cruz. He was the second devotee I met in California. I loved him; he was like a damn good buddy. Chakradhari and another devotee named Indra were probably the reason I came to New Vrindaban, or I would have stayed in California. He told me to go and live at New Vrindaban. He told me that New Vrindaban was a cool place and there was a pure devotee there: Kirtanananda Swami. He said that Prabhupada said so; Prabhupada said that Kirtanananda was a pure devotee. No material desires.
As an aside, Chakradhari came to New Vrindaban in 1980, but was murdered on June 10, 1983 by two New Vrindaban devotees.
In 1978, James moved from Santa Cruz California to New Vrindaban West Virginia where he took diksa from Kirtanananda Swami during a Christmas Day 1978 fire sacrifice. Maharaja gave him the name Jagannath Mishra dasa. After working in the garden for a time, he became a traveling picker. He was a big picker. Mish and I served as picking partners for many months, and traveled across the country, to Maine, to California, and to New Jersey where we worked parking lots, shopping malls, concerts and sporting events. We sometimes spent nights at my parents’ home in East Brunswick. We had a good time together.
New Vrindaban Summer Festival at Prabhupada’s Palace. Jagannath Mishra stands next to Bhaktipada, with bare chest and right arm raised (c. early 1980s).
Others who I recognize are (from left to right): Unidentified devotee, Nara Narayan from Quebec, Jagannath Mishra, Radha Govinda from Quebec, Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada, Jyotirdhama ACBSP, two unidentified Indian devotees, the author, Kanina from Toronto.
At the Christmas Sankirtan Festival at New Vrindaban in 1981, Mish and I received “The Golden Van Award,” as we were the two highest-scoring pickers on the men’s parties for that year. Consequently, we were invited to accompany our spiritual master on a February-March 1982 trip to India to visit the ISKCON Hare Krishna temple at Juhu Beach in Bombay, and also attend the ISKCON Mayapur Festival in the Nadia District of Bengal which commemorated the 496th anniversary of Lord Chaitanya Mahaprabhu’s birth. Mish and I enjoyed hanging out with Bhaktipada in his suite in the guest lodge, massaging his feet, serving him, running little errands, etc. We thought this was the perfection of our lives.
Mish and I worked in Maine during the summer one year, I think in 1982. We were a good team. One Sunday the stores were closed—in those days some states had Blue Laws whereupon shopping centers were closed on Sundays—and so we decided to take a day off and go to the beach. The air temperature was warm, perhaps 80 degrees. We parked our van, changed into shorts and t-shirts, and started running towards the Atlantic Ocean. Maybe 50 people were sunning themselves on the beach, and perhaps a dozen people were swimming in the ocean, playing catch with beach balls and Frisbees, etc.
After running across the sandy beach, we ran into the North Atlantic Ocean, and we felt a shock of ice cold water on our feet and ankles. We got up to our knees and we started shivering. When the water reached our chests, we started to turn blue. My teeth were chattering. The water was freezing! We looked at each other with shocked expressions, and ran back through the water to the beach. We were truly amazed at the frigid temperature of the water, and we couldn’t understand how all those people were still up to their necks in the water, laughing and playing.
A little while later, I asked a young blond girl who was running the concession stand, “We think the water is freezing! We couldn’t even stay in for a minute! How can all those people in the water tolerate the ice-cold temperature?” She replied, “Oh, they think the water’s warm. They’re from Canada!”
Mish had a fondness for attractive young women, and he liked to charm the ladies on the pick into giving him a donation, especially the young, attractive, sexy ladies who frequented high-end shopping malls on Friday nights. We both did big in the shopping malls, flirting with the single girls. Maybe we made $50 per hour. At this time we were only asking a dollar or two.
One time at the Paramus Park Shopping Mall in Paramus New Jersey, he told me that he had to go back out to our van and change his underwear. While hitting up an incredibly hot and sexy woman, he had an ejaculation, just standing there and talking to her. I guess he was an incredibly horny guy. I used to have nocturnal emissions at night, maybe twice or thrice a week, but never had an ejaculation when I was awake.
Mish possessed a fine appreciation for the female form. One of my godbrothers remembered:
When Kuladri [Arthur John Villa—the New Vrindaban temple president and a married man], and Kanka [Susan O’Neil Hebel—a young and uncommonly attractive divorced woman with young children] were having their affair in the early 1980s, she was the talk of the town at New Vrindaban. I once remarked to Mish, “Everyone is always talking about Kanka. Kanka this, Kanka that. What’s the big deal?”
Mish quickly replied, “She has a nice posterior!”
New Vrindaban Summer Festival at Prabhupada’s Palace. Jagannath Mishra stands next to Bhaktipada. The African-American soon-to-be ISKCON guru Bhakti Tirtha Swami follows Bhaktipada (c. early 1980s).
In 1985, while Mish, Dasarath and I were doing the pick in the San Francisco Bay Area, I heard the New Vrindaban temple president, Kuladri dasa, offer Mish a child bride. Mish replied, “I only want someone of drinking age.” In other words, “No child bride for me! If I’m gonna be married, I want an adult woman.” At the time, New Vrindaban administrators paired young teenage girls with adult men, as was recommended by the ISKCON Founder/Acharya. About a dozen girls married older men, including my sankirtan buddy Dasarath. None of the marriages lasted more than a year, although a few girls got pregnant.
I wrote about this pastime in an article, “Srila Bhaktipada In California,” which was published in the May 1985 issue of Brijabasi Spirit:
The next stop [on Bhaktipada’s California tour] was the Berkeley [ISKCON] temple. After an ecstatic kirtan, one of Bhaktipada’s disciples [Jagannath Mishra] exclaimed, “Wow! Did you see those boys dancing and spinning?”
“Were you also spinning?” Kuladri asked.
“He spins for pretty girls,” said Srila Bhaktipada. All the devotees chuckled. “So, when are you getting married?” Srila Bhaktipada continued. The devotee was silent.
Another devotee spoke for him: “He’s waiting for the right dish.”
“Give him a cracked plate,” Srila Bhaktipada replied. “Prabhupada said the taste is the same.”
Then he [Bhaktipada] sang in a sweet baritone voice, “Gol-den dish”; then in a growling bass register, “I-ron bowl.” All the devotees cracked up laughing. Bhaktipada finished with, “When the lights are out...”
“Prabhupada didn’t say that, did he?“ asked Kuladri.
“Yes.” said Srila Bhaktipada.
“This is embarrassing,” stammered the poor boy.
“Yes,” Srila Bhaktipada replied. “It is a great embarrassment for the soul.”
Despite Bhaktipada’s chastisement, Mish really loved his spiritual master, as did I. When Bhaktipada visited California, Mish, Dasarath and I followed him around everywhere he went, like small children follow a parent. At the end of our spiritual master’s visit, we followed Bhaktipada to the San Francisco International Airport, but his flight was delayed. I describe this pastime in “Srila Bhaktipada In California.”
At nine o’clock, Atreya Rsi [Faramarz Attar, the ISKCON GBC representative for Northern California] drove Bhaktipada and Kuladri to the airport. Devotees followed in their cars. At the airport, when Kuladri announced that the plane would be delayed, Bhaktipada told everyone to go home and take rest. The others paid obeisances, and wished Bhaktipada a safe trip. Soon, the room was empty except for the three of us and our beloved Guru Maharaja.
Bhaktipada was tired. Dasarath asked him if he would like to take rest in our van, parked outside. Bhaktipada agreed, and we rushed out to get things ready. Quickly, we laid down a soft foam mat in the back and found a sweater for a pillow. When Bhaktipada asked for a blanket, I produced my sleeping bag—the only thing available—unzipped it, and laid it over Bhaktipada, tucking him in as best I could. To have our spiritual master as a guest in our sankirtan van was a memorable event in our lives.
I said softly to Dasarath, “Remember two years ago when we won the Christmas marathon and Bhaktipada promised to go out on sankirtan with the winning party? We wondered when he would. Now, Krishna is fulfilling our desire.”
“Why don’t we kidnap Bhaktipada so he can go on traveling sankirtan with us,” Dasarath said jokingly.
Bhaktipada overheard our conversation and replied, “Yes. I can do the cooking.” We all laughed.
We were tired and soon fell asleep. An hour later, Bhaktipada woke me up, “Hrishikesh, see if the plane is on time.”
“It appears that Bhaktipada rests his body, but his mind is always awake in Krishna consciousness,” I thought. When I stepped out of the van, I noticed a profusion of flower petals sprinkled on and around the van. “The demigods are watching over Bhaktipada,” I mused.
It was time for Bhaktipada to leave. He walked regally up the carpeted ramp and entered the jetliner. Our hearts felt devoid of life. We stared at the airplane as it left the terminal and taxied, and ascended into the night sky. Finally, it merged into the mass of stars and disappeared. Not a word was spoken. I wondered how the gopis felt when Krishna left Vrindaban. We looked at one another, stunned. Resigning ourselves to Bhaktipada’s inevitable departure, we walked slowly to the van.
As we drove down the deserted highway, Jagannath told us, “You know, Hrishikesh, Bhaktipada really loves us.”
“He loves us more than we can ever imagine,” I answered. After a few moments, Mish stated with conviction, “How fortunate we are. All we have to do is hold on to Bhaktipada’s feet tightly, never let go, and he’ll take us all the way back home, back to Godhead.”
There was no reply. Only a well-worn tape recording of Bhaktipada’s voice, singing sweetly, and filling our hearts with the transcendental sound vibration: Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare; Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare.
A couple years after our California trip, Mish married Gandhari devi dasi (Frances Villemarie), an attractive adult French-Canadian Bhaktipada disciple, who also served on the pick. But she eventually left him. My godbrother Damodar remembered, “He [Mish] was very frank and forward about the fact that his attraction to women constantly rattled his brain. When his first wife left him he became suicidal. He described to me the herbs he took to battle depression.”
After Mish left New Vrindaban in the late 1980s, he worked in construction and home remodeling. He moved around a lot. He lived for a time in Sanford, Florida, and in Van Nuys, California. In 2005 he lived in San Francisco and worked as a manager in a downtown hotel. He met a non-devotee French lady, Ann Marie, and got married. He visited France with her. Unfortunately, he got mugged and was beaten so severely that he lost his teeth. He was in the hospital for some time. His second wife, Ann Marie, also left him. Clearly he wasn’t having much luck with women.
Mish moved to Fort Lauderdale, where he did odd jobs in construction and home remodeling. I met him in Fort Lauderdale on April 26, 2011. He was homeless and living in his car, as construction work was slow at that time. He had no concept of how to save money. Whenever he got money, he spent it partying with his friends.
He used to call me on the phone about once a month. One time he asked me to loan him some money. I mailed him a money order for $400. It took him a year or two to pay me back, but eventually he paid me in full.
Three big former New Vrindaban pickers—Jagannath Mishra (James Bulsa), Compassionate (Rosalyn Fejes) and the author—enjoy a humorous moment during a reunion in Fort Lauderdale, Florida (April 26, 2011).
After struggling in Fort Lauderdale, Mish moved in with his younger brother Jeffrey, a geologist who owned a farm in Isonville, Kentucky. 31 years earlier, Jeffrey had established a company, JCB Downhole Vision, specializing in oil well site geology and mud logging services. For several years, from about 2011 to 2015, Mish lived in Isonville. Jeffrey gave him free room and board and an extremely generous allowance of $800 per month for doing a smattering of menial chores on his farm.
I talked to Mish usually once a month on the phone. He seemed to want me to validate his belief in Krishna, but I could not provide that to him. One time I mailed him a birthday present: a Cohiba Cuban cigar and a fifth of a bottle of Kentucky bourbon. I didn’t know his brother was paying him $800 per month.
Jeffrey later claimed Mish once ate a piece of fried chicken. Jeffrey told me, “Jimmy’s health was not good; he was skinny and sometimes sickly. I encouraged him to see a dentist and get his teeth fixed, and I volunteered to pay for it, but he refused. I told him his health would improve if he ate some meat instead of that Krishna vegetarian diet. Once he ate a piece of chicken right off my dinner plate. I told him: Jimmy, just let me know ahead of time and I’ll fix you up a piece of chicken too!”
When profits from Jeffrey’s company began to decline, he sold his Kentucky farm in 2018 and moved north, back to Ohio. Mish moved south, to the New Raman Reti ISKCON community in Alachua Florida, because he was a Krishna devotee at heart. He got a job with room and board working for a wealthy former disciple of Satsvarupa dasa Goswami from New York named Krishna Bhakta dasa.
Mish served as gardener and keeper of the cows on Krishna Bhakta’s expansive estate. Mish told me his employer was always late in paying him. I knew Krishna Bhakta when he lived with me and other brahmacharis c. 1984-1985 in the basement of Adwaita's New Vrindaban satellite center at 1025 Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, a Polish and Latino neighborhood.
Mish passed away on July 30, 2022 in Alachua. He had been depressed for a long time. His body was discovered hanging from a rafter with a noose around his neck. The county sheriff declined to conduct an investigation, as it looked like Mish had killed himself. A devotee who knew Mish in Alachua reported, “I believe he took his own life because he was experiencing health issues and he did not think he would get the support he would need. And I do not believe the community was ready and able to help him with his issues,” as noted at Krishna1008 Blogspot.
Damodar and I posted some of our memories of Mish at Dandavats.com.
Nityodita dasa, ACBSP (Carlos Ordonez, b. April 8, 1953) went to Kenmore East High School in Tonawanda New York, a suburb of Buffalo. Nityo explained how he came to New Vrindaban in a homage he wrote for Bhaktipada’s Vyasa Puja book:
Even back then [1974], your fame was known. As one friend at the Ann Arbor ISKCON temple told me, “Kirtanananda Swami is the oldest and most advanced disciple of Srila Prabhupada. He stays at New Vrindaban. If you are interested in finding out about Krishna consciousness, that’s where you should go.”
So I came to New Vrindaban just to “check it out” as a possible alternative life style, and I remember the first time I came up to your cabin at Bahulaban. You were sitting in your rocking chair next to the wood stove; you looked so unattached, renounced, yet satisfied also. I told you I had been there for three days and that I would like to stay and learn about Krishna consciousness. You smiled invitingly and said, “That’s very nice. Just chant Hare Krishna, work hard, and be happy!” And that was it. From that point on you accepted me as a father welcomes back his son.—Nityodita dasa, 1982 Vyasa Puja Book.
Bhakta Carlos took diksa at New Vrindaban in August 1975 and became Nityodita dasa. When I first came to New Vrindaban, he served under Atmabhu Swami in Palace construction. He was a fired-up brahmachari and lived at the Old Vrindaban Brahmachari Ashram. Nityo was featured in an article by Dravida dasa, “The People Who Built the Palace,” published in the July 1981 issue of Back To Godhead.
As I recall, after the Palace dedication in September 1979, Bhaktipada sent Nityo (and many others, including me) out on the pick. He was a big picker, and he was also intelligent. The two qualities do not always go together. Muktakesh was a big picker, but he was not very intelligent. I don’t recall that Mukta ever served as a party leader. But Nityo was intelligent, so he served as a party leader.
Sometimes Nityo served as Bhaktipada’s personal servant when Bhaktipada traveled overseas. In a 1985 Vyasa Puja homage, Nityo wrote, “Although you have let me tag along with you on our overseas preaching tours, I haven’t been a good servant. In Delhi, this year, you asked me to tie up one trunk. After watching my clumsy efforts for a few minutes you declared, ‘You are useless!’ Then you bent over and proceeded to expertly tie up the trunk yourself. You concluded, ‘No, not exactly useless, but you’re only good on sankirtan!’”
During the March/February 1982 GBC meetings, the GBC put Nityo on a one year waiting list to be given sannyasa in 1983. Nityo did not accept the honor until 1986. Once during a darshan broadcast on the speakers in the New Vrindaban temple room, Bhaktipada said Nityo was “a pain in the ass.”—Darshan during house arrest broadcast in the New Vrindaban temple (May 1, 1991)
Nityo on the pick, photo from Brijabasi Spirit, Vol. 10, No. 5 (September 1983). Photo enhanced and colorized by AI.
Nityo was one of the first New Vrindaban men’s collectors to work in California. California was a dangerous place for New Vrindaban pickers, because the California ISKCON devotees hated us. Factually, nearly all ISKCON devotees in the United States and Canada hated us, because we went into their zones without permission. The ISKCON Governing Body Commission wanted all the different temples in different zones to cooperate. After all, Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada allegedly said, “After my demise, your love for me will be demonstrated by how you cooperate together.” But we at New Vrindaban thought we were the only temple which followed Prabhupada’s orders strictly. Some of the other ISKCON acharyas had fallen down from their sannyasa vows, but we believed Bhaktipada would never fall from his vows. He was a pure devotee, and Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada had said so, more than once.
So we boldly went were no one had gone before, into other zones. Of course, we had to sneak around a bit. We never visited the temples in other zones, lest they would see us. But we worked their events. Dharmatma told us to “Blast away!” Bhaktipada even had a vanity license plate made which read: “Easy Journey to Other Zones.”
When Nityo first worked in the Los Angeles area, he worked a big event, maybe a NASCAR race. But the Los Angeles pickers saw him and his partner working the parking lot. As I heard the story, the Los Angeles pickers requested a New Dwaraka Ksatriya Enforcer (Ksatriya means “warrior”) to find the New Vrindaban van and teach us a lesson. It probably wasn’t all that difficult, as there weren’t many vehicles in the parking lot with West Virginia license plates, and it was always easy to spot a sankirtan devotee van: they always had bananas or some other fruit on the dashboard. When the Los Angeles Ksatriya discovered our New Vrindaban van, he slashed our tires. After the event, Nityo had to go out and purchase four new tires at considerable expense.
As Nityo and I were both party leaders, we rarely got to serve on the same party. But once, Dharmatma sent Nityo, Jagannath Mishra and myself to California. I was given the job of party leader. Both Nityo and Mish were big pickers, which is why we got sent to California. Dharmatma kept the less-experienced pickers close to home. We drove all the way to California.
I respected Nityo, although I didn’t always agree with him. I think he (mostly) respected me, even though he was a Prabhupada disciple and my senior. I think we had only one conflict during our two months on the road together. Devotees in California didn’t get to return to New Vrindaban once a month, because of the great distance involved. We returned only after two or three months.
I remember the incident: I was driving our van through the streets of Los Angeles, probably on our way to an event. We had just finished chanting our rounds, and to save time, Nityo—the official cook for our party—squatted in the back of the van cooking up a pot of kitchari. Unfortunately, the traffic on the city street was stop and go. I had to stop at many red lights. This made it extremely difficult for Nityo to keep the pot of boiling water on the camp stove from sliding off the stove and spilling all over. He angrily chastised me a couple times and admonished me to drive more carefully. However, I felt I WAS driving carefully! Sometimes due to traffic, I had to put on the brakes from time to time and stop short.
Nityo only chastised me twice. The third time, Nityo saved the pot from spilling, but he was so pissed that he picked up a full gallon water jug and poured it over my head, while I was driving. It took about 15 seconds to empty, splashing on my head and dripping down my neck, shirt, chest, back and eventually soaking my pants. When the jug was empty, I was sitting in a gallon of water on the van seat.
I could tell of course that Nityo was angry at me, but I also knew that he was raring for a fight, so I wisely kept my mouth shut. I accepted his chastisement in silence. It appeared that Nityo was disappointed that I didn’t raise hell, and he smirked, “Hrishikesh thinks he’s SO SMART! He just keeps his mouth shut.” It wasn’t a big deal for me. I’m normally a tolerant person. It takes a lot to get me angry. When we arrived at our destination, I just pulled my duffel bag out from under the wooden van bench, and changed into dry clothes.
Another time while we were working in California, in the San Francisco Bay Area, on the East Bay, we worked a big Kmart parking lot. Nityo and Mish worked outside in the parking lot, and I blitzed up the inside of the store. We gave people citations, passed out bumper stickers and requested $5.00 donations. The following story, which reveals Nityo’s boldness, appears in Gold, Guns and God, Vol. 4:
Devotees always had to watch for security guards and police. We knew soliciting without a permit was illegal, as was fraud or misrepresentation, but we believed Krishna—through Bhaktipada—had authorized us to lie for him. We regarded police chases and court charges and even jail time as nothing more than occupational hazards; all to be accepted in our line of work. The New Vrindaban sankirtan weekly report sheet even listed one line in the expenses category for “fines.” We were paying so many fines for illegal activities that it was printed on the report as an expense.
Devotees sometimes shoplifted to save money. For a while when grocery shopping, I customarily put a package of Kraft cheese down my pants under my belt before I went to the checkout, until an undercover security guard caught me. Only then I abandoned the habit. Once while working the pick in California with Nityodita (Carlos Ordonez) and Jagannatha Mishra (James Bulsa), I was astounded by Nityo’s boldness.
We had been working a Kmart lot for about a half hour. Nityo and Mish worked outside in the lot and I worked inside blitzing up customers in the aisles. After 20-30 minutes, I noticed a few men wearing white shirts and black ties (store managers) walking quickly through the aisles with determined expressions on their faces. I knew a customer I had hit up had complained and they were looking for me!
Without wasting a moment, I left the store and signaled to my partners to meet me at the van. It took only about a minute for me to walk through the lot and hop into the driver’s seat. Within a few seconds Nityo and Mish also entered the van. I told them, “The place is hot; it’s time to leave,” but Nityo checked me. He said, “Okay, but first pull alongside the front of the store. They have some really beautiful ice chests on display on the sidewalk.”
Against my better judgment, I did as he requested, passing right in front of two store managers who were standing outside looking into the parking lot searching for solicitors. I stopped the van by the coolers, Nityo jumped out, grabbed the biggest one, threw it into our van and hopped in. Then he ordered, “Step on it, Hrishikesh! Let’s get out of here!” I thanked my lucky stars that we never got caught.
Nityo, Mish and I traveled extensively during our Far West tour. In addition to working California, we drove to Boise, Idaho, where we worked a July 7, 1983 concert at the BSU Pavilion on the campus of Boise State University featuring Loverboy, and Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. The following evening we worked a Kenny Loggins concert at the same venue.
A month later, we drove to the newly-opened B. C. Place Stadium in Vancouver, British Columbia, and worked the August 9, 1983 David Bowie concert, during his worldwide “Serious Moonlight Tour.” 54,000 fans attended the sold-out event. We didn’t do well, however, as we got nipped by security early on.
Poster for David Bowie’s performance at B. C. Place.
Nityo became a Swami at a New Vrindaban fire sacrifice on June 4, 1986. I got married at the same fire sacrifice. I heard that Bhaktipada had issued him an ultimatum, “Either you take sannyasa, or get married.” Nityo apparently decided that he’d suffer less as a sannyasi than a grhastha.
Years later, in the late 1990s or early 2000s, Nityo renounced his sannyasa title and married a pretty, dark-skinned Hindu girl, Radha devi dasi, from Trinidad. He purchased some property right on Palace Road, and built an enormous house with money, I heard, from working on the pick. We called it “Nityo’s Palace.” I attended his big house-warming party. I recall the prasadam was superb. There was lots of kirtan.
For a long time, Nityo supported himself by working the pick, but since signing a contract with the gas fracking company, I assume he doesn’t need to go out on the road so often. In November 2025, one of my New Vrindaban friends sold Nityo some Buckeye stickers and hats at a rock-bottom price, so my guess is that Nityo still goes out, at the age of 73, to do the pick now and then.
Nityodita Swami (c. 1990)
Damodar dasa
Allen White was born in San Francisco on August 28, 1954. Just before his tenth birthday, in 1964 his family moved to St. Paul, Minnesota. In high school he began exploring spiritual paths, such as Scientology. During his freshman year in college, Allen received initiation into Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s Transcendental Meditation and began silently chanting his mantra twice a day. Soon he began attending functions hosted by the Divine Light Mission, and later on, The Himalayan Institute. The elders at the Himalayan Institute gave him the name Dinesh, which they said was his correct name according to astrological calculation.
Dinesh and his older sister contracted to drive a car from Minnesota to California. She wanted to get away from her overly-controlling mother. Dinesh dropped her off in the San Francisco Bay area, and he headed south to deliver the car. From there, he hitchhiked across Southern California visiting various ashrams. During his travels, he visited the Los Angeles ISKCON temple during a Sunday feast, and he was impressed. He moved into the ISKCON ashram in February 1978. For a while he worked in the accounting office, where he counted the collections of the sankirtan devotees. After a while, temple authorities insisted that he go out on sankirtan. Dinesh recalled, “If I collected $27, that was a good day for me.”
Dinesh decided that book distribution was not the life for him, so he planned to move to the New Vrindaban ISKCON farm in rural West Virginia. After a few months, he saved enough money to purchase a plane ticket to Pittsburgh. He arrived in New Vrindaban on September 5, 1978. Dinesh explained, “I remember the date, because I arrived at New Vrindaban just in time for the festival honoring the divine appearance day of the ISKCON spiritual master there: Kirtanananda Maharaja. I remember seeing a banner: September 5th—The Most Blessed Event: the Appearance Day of His Divine Grace Kirtanananda Swami Maharaja.”
Five months later, in February 1979, Bhakta Dinesh, as he was known at New Vrindaban, volunteered to move to the New Vrindaban satellite center in Columbus Ohio to learn how to collect money on sankirtan. Dinesh explained, “I didn’t fit in at New Vrindaban, and wanted to find a place where I felt I belonged.” A month later, Dinesh became Damodar dasa at a fire sacrifice on Gaura Purnima (March 13, 1979) at the Bahulaban temple. Damodar explained, “I was never a big picker, but I served on traveling sankirtan for several years.”
As noted earlier, Damodar and I went out on the pick in California in December 1984. I always enjoyed his company. I found him to be a thoughtful person, on the quiet side, but at times, unexpectantly jovial.
For a time in the mid- or late-1980s, Damodar served as the temple president for the New Vrindaban satellite centers in Columbus and Cleveland, Ohio. On October 11, 1987, Damodar married a Prabhupada disciple, Gopalasyapriya devi dasi (Dian Alpert White) (b. November 18, 1954). She is from Livonia, Michigan and was a big picker for New Vrindaban in the 1970s and 1980s. I played the recently-installed Möller pipe organ at the New Vrindaban temple during their wedding ceremony.
Soon after the September 6, 1993 Winnebago Incident which split the New Vrindaban Community into two factions—those who supported Bhaktipada and those who wanted Bhaktipada removed as leader of New Vrindaban—Damodar challenged the leaders of the pro-Bhaktipada faction, PK Swami, RVC Swami and Bhakti Rasa Swami in an open letter:
When we split from ISKCON [in 1987], there were no less than one hundred times when Bhaktipada slammed his fist down and condemned their philosophy that no one could be like Prabhupada. “They just want to go on with their sinning!” he would scream from his vyasasana. “Be ye perfect as your father in heaven is perfect!” Yet now, we hear “He’s only human, nobody is perfect, anyone with a material body can fall,” echoing around the dhama in his defense. One of you took it a step further by saying that there was no reason to necessarily believe that Prabhupada was perfect. This will surely lend to questions about the whole disciplic succession until finally in the worst case scenario it will be, “After all, Lord Chaitanya was constantly embracing other men.”
Damodar also served as New Vrindaban’s temple president from 1996 to 1998. Today (June 2026), Damodar still lives at New Vrindaban with his wife, Gopalasyapriya.
Damodar and his wife Gopalasyapriya devi dasi ACBSP (Dian Alpert White) on vacation at Little Beach, Makena State Park, Maui, Hawaii (c. 2009). From Gopa’s Facebook page.
Damodar and the author at Old St. Luke’s Church, Carnegie, Pennsylvania, for the wedding of our godsister Shannon (October 10, 2015).
The author (center) with former New Vrindaban resident Shannon (Sita) and current resident Allen White (Damodar) at West Virginia University, Morgantown (February 19, 2026).
Bhaktisiddhanta dasa
Bhaktisiddhanta dasa (William Crockett) was one of our biggest pickers. He came to New Vrindaban after 1982 sometime. He was a staunch brahmachari and followed all the regulative principles strictly, I believe. I don’t think we ever went out together, at least I don’t remember going out with him. This is to be expected, because he was a party leader, and I was also a party leader.
He was one of the first to do big doing hats, instead of stickers, at sporting events. He became a bigger picker than me. In 1988, Bhaktipada awarded him with the title Swami and he became known as Bhaktisiddhanta Swami.
One of New Vrindaban’s biggest pickers, Bhaktisiddhanta dasa (William Crockett) in his sankirtan van.
Bhaktisiddhanta counts his daily Laksmi points.
Muktakesh dasa, ACBSP
Ronald Burstein grew up in a Jewish family in Buffalo, New York. His father was a dentist, and the devotees considered the family wealthy. As a young man, Ronald got addicted to heroin. However, when he joined ISKCON and moved into the ashram he was able to kick his habit, due to the extremely regulated life of a Krishna devotee living in the temple. His wife recalled, “He had a heroin addiction before joining the movement, he managed to stay clean for years, but when he went out in the world on the pick he fell again into temptation.”
Ronald was initiated in March 1974, and received the name Muktakesh dasa. Mukta’s brother Larry became Lokavarnottama nine months earlier during a June 1973 fire sacrifice. Both brothers excelled at book distribution and rapidly became known as maharathis: big guns. In 1975, Buffalo became part of Kirtanananda’s GBC Zone, and both brothers developed a strong relationship with New Vrindaban, and eventually relocated there to West Virginia when the Buffalo temple and farm was disbanded.
I first met Mukta in 1979 at the Chicaco Pope Pick. He was one of New Vrindaban’s biggest collectors and I admired him and tried to follow in his footsteps. I only went out on the pick with Mukta a handful of times. Once in 1980 or 1981 I worked the parking lots and malls with him in Bhaktipada’s zone, I think Ohio. I served as party leader. Another time, in 1985, Mukta and I were stationed at the 1025 Manhattan Avenue New Vrindaban satellite center. We worked the Pathmark shopping center lots in Brooklyn.
During our Ohio adventure, on the first or second day out, Mukta suggested something, I don’t remember what. I think it was related to finding a place to do the pick. I didn’t think it was a good idea, but Mukta insisted. He had a very big voice and a stubborn nature and I fell under his influence. I thought to myself, “Well, Mukta is an experienced picker. He joined ISKCON maybe five years before me. He’s got more experience. Maybe I should try his suggestion, although my gut feeling is to reject his idea.”
Against my natural inclination, I followed Mukta’s advice, and the plan ended terribly. I wish I could remember the details, but whatever it was that he suggested we do, it was a wash out. A total waste of time. That was the last time I followed Mukta’s advice. From that time on, I trusted my own judgement, and our increased picking results justified my personal intuition.
Around 1981, Mukta married another big sankirtan devotee, Mother Lilamrita. Her legal name is Kay Mathers, but the Bhaktipada Disciple Book indicated her name was Louise Mathias. She took diksa from Bhaktipada at a fire sacrifice at New Vrindaban during the December 1980 festival for Lord Nrsimhadeva. My godsister remembered her introduction to Krishna consciousness and her marriage to Mukta:
I met Syamakunda (Gregory Detamore) from New Vrindaban in India. We met in New Delhi when we stayed in the same guest house. He told me about Krishna. I had a book of Srila Prabhupada’s I was given at the Bhagwan Rajneseh ashram. Many months later at the Rainbow Festival in West Virginia I met Tapapunja on a pathway, and he took me to their camp where Advaita was cooking. I liked the Krishna devotees, and when they packed up and returned to New Vrindaban, I went with them.
I think Mukta and I were married in 1981. We got divorced in 1988. He was great on the pick, so funny, like a mentor. Ours was an arranged marriage. My visitor’s visa had expired and I was arrested on the pick. Fortunately, the police computer had problems, and they let me go. When I told Bhaktipada I couldn’t go out on the pick anymore, they arranged our marriage, so that I could continue to raise money for New Vrindaban.
We went on the pick together, and he showed me the house he grew up in Buffalo. He got his undergraduate degree from Amherst College if I remember correctly, and did three or four years of pre-med school before he joined ISKCON. His father was a successful dentist, so they were quite well off. Mr. Burstein served in the United States military as a major during World War II.
Mukta had a heroin addiction before joining the movement, and he managed to stay clean for years, but out in the world on the pick he gave into temptation. Several times he went to professional rehab clinics. His parents got him help. I think he even had electric shock treatment. Krsna consciousness helped him also.
One time when Mukta was back on the farm working with the wood-cutting crew, he cut his leg badly with a chainsaw. My godbrother Janardan (Jeff Claussen) was there:
It was in the summer time in the area across from the Palace and the grey house, the area where they were building some cabins. Maybe the summer of 1981 or 1982. I don’t remember exactly how Mukta decided to help me with clearing land, but I was cutting down some trees and Mukta was piling brush and stacking logs.
Before long Mukta wanted to run the chainsaw. In retrospect, I should have asked if he had ever operated one before, or at least I should have run through some safety tips, but it seemed like he wanted to take the bull by the horns and not just be a serf picking up branches. It didn’t take long. He was cutting a small branch about shoulder or head high, and the saw came down across the top part of his leg. I grabbed a stick and handed it to him to use as a crutch, but all he could do grasp his leg with both hands.
I told him to make it up to the road (just a few minutes away) and I would flag down a ride. As I got to the road, Kasyapa was driving by. I flagged him down and said Mukta needs a ride to the hospital, now! Mukta came stumbling up and Kasaypa drove him away. It was the last time I ever saw him.
When Muktakesh returned from the hospital, he took lots of pain medication, and became addicted. In order to get an unlimited supply, he traveled to India and purchased an enormous quantity of pain pills, but he got caught by customs officers when he returned to America and spent time in prison. That was good for him, as he got clean. When he was released, he returned to New Vrindaban and became Director of the New Vrindaban Prison Ministry.
Bhaktipada, Daivata dasa (Anthony Alves) and Lilamrita devi dasi in New Orleans for the Mardi Gras pick (probably February 1986).
Mukta and Lilamrita had one son: Chediraja. He was affectionately named after Mukta’s dear deceased friend and godbrother from Buffalo who had passed away tragically nine months earlier while out on the pick. The family lived in a small house on New Vrindaban property in a field across from Dharmatma’s Sankirtan House. They had a life-long lease. When he was older, their son Chedi studied biology at West Virginia University. Lilamrita continued:
Our son Chedi was born on the 19th of October 1985. That boy is the best gift Mukta ever gave me. Mukta was battling addiction and was verbally and physically abusive to me, so I went to Bhaktipada and he said we could get a divorce. The funny thing was that Bhaktipada later told Mukta that he never agreed to allow us to get a divorce. This duplicity made me question my faith in my spiritual master, and soon after, I moved away. Fortunately, Mukta and I made peace before he passed away, which I was grateful for.
I left my house in New Vrindaban around 1996/97 and went back to New Zealand with Chedi until 2000. I came back to the U. S. and bought a house in Wheeling so Chedi could go to Wheeling Park High School, as he had a trust from Mukta’s father to go on to college. Chedi started at Penn State, but graduated from West Virginia University.
Today, Lilamrita lives in Tauranga, New Zealand. Her son married a New Vrindaban girl, Joyful Chicoine, the daughter of my godbrother and godsister Mahaprabhu dasa and Janaki devi dasi. During the mid-1990s, my daughter and Joyful were best friends when they were little girls at New Vrindaban.
In 2004-2005, I worked with Mukta when he served as Director of the New Vrindaban Prison Ministry. I had been corresponding with Tirtha in prison (Thomas A. Drescher) who was serving two life sentences for the murders of Chadradhari (Charles St. Denis) and Sulochan (Steven Bryant). At the time, Tirtha was writing books which were published by the New Vrindaban Prison Ministry.
Tirtha, incarcerated at Mount Olive Correctional Complex in southern West Virginia, continued writing prolifically, and in 2005 the ISKCON Prison Ministry at New Vrindaban published The Definitive Guide to Practicing Krishna Consciousness in Prison, a guidebook for incarcerated convicts to help them practice Krishna consciousness. I served as Tirtha’s editor and Chandramauli Swami, who had become involved in prison ministry programs some years earlier, wrote the Introduction for Tirtha’s book. The book was apparently popular, for it was translated and published in Slovenian and distributed, along with Chandramauli Swami’s own book, Holy Jail, to convicts in Slovenian prisons.
In 2006, the New Vrindaban Prison Ministry published four more books by Tirtha: Prisoner Me, The Process of Perfect Atonement, Losing the Mind and Freedom from Fear. One other book which Tirtha and I worked on, The Six Goswamis (transcriptions of lectures by Radhanath Swami), was canned for obvious reasons, as by this time Radhanath did not want his name associated with the name of a convicted murderer.
I was present when Mukta took his last breath. This next section is from an article I wrote which was published in several online Hare Krishna blogs, including Brijabasi Spirit Online and ISKCON News.org.
As explained by Loka, during the last few weeks Mukta had been complaining of neck pains, and the doctors at first were unable to properly diagnose his condition. Later it was discovered he had a cyst in his throat and another in the spinal column in his neck, which needed immediate attention. Then a terrible accident prevented him from breathing for many minutes and irreparable brain damage ensued.
In my article, I did not describe the accident, but I will do so here. As I heard it, when Mukta woke up in the recovery room after his throat and neck operation, he couldn’t talk, as a respirator tube had been shoved down his trachea. He tried to communicate with the nurse, but was unable to do so. He desperately wanted the nurse to remove the respirator tube from his windpipe so he could talk. Mukta can be a forceful person, and although the nurse protested, eventually s/he acquiesed to his demands and removed the respirator tube.
That was a big, big mistake; a life and death mistake. Due to the operation just a few hours before, Mukta’s throat and neck were swollen tremendously. The respirator tube was keeping his air passage open. When the nurse removed the respirator, Mukta’s windpipe instantly shut and he was unable to breathe. The nurse was unable to re-insert the respirator tube, and called for a doctor. By the time a doctor arrived, Mukta had been unconscious for many minutes, perhaps ten or fifteen. Although the doctor managed to re-insert the respirator tube, Mukta never regained consciousness. His brain had been permanently damaged. My article continued:
Three tests were performed to determine the condition of Mukta’s brain, and each test revealed that cognitive brain functions were practically nil. After these tests confirmed that Mukta would most likely never recover external consciousness, it was decided that he should be removed from life support and allowed to die naturally.
I arrived at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center Montefiore Hospital Intensive Care Unit at 1:30 p.m. on Saturday, April 7, 2007. One of Mukta’s godbrothers was massaging his head, and Gadadhara (one of Cedi’s friends) was massaging Mukta’s left hand. A cassette tape of kirtan was playing in the background. Mukta was covered with a harinama chaddar, and tilak was on his forehead. Pictures of Krishna, Prabhupada and Lord Nrsimhadev were strategically placed near Mukta on his hospital bed and on the walls.
After a while Chediraja entered, sat down next to the bed and began holding his father’s right hand. Chedi’s great love for his father was obvious at every moment of the vigil. Throughout the turbulent emotions he experienced, he remained at his father’s side continually. Loka also soon appeared with his son Krishnaloka, along with other devotees, including one Bhakta Bill who drove from Detroit to be with his Siksha Guru at his passing.
Bill had been in prison for some time, and Mukta ministered to him through his ISKCON Prison Ministry. Because of Mukta’s ministry, Bill adopted the Vaishnava ways and developed a deep love for his Guru who had changed his life. I was very happy to meet Bill, one success of Mukta’s preaching.
After some time, Mukta was moved from intensive care to another floor where the hospital staff thought there would be more room for visiting devotees who would arrive for his passing. Although the room did not appear to be any bigger, it was situated at the end of a hallway with a lounge where devotees could sit if the room became full.
Mukta was moved about 3 p.m. We assisted by carrying devotional articles, pictures, tape player, etc. I carried a large photograph of Radha-Vrindaban Chandra and a colorful helium balloon someone had brought. We decorated the new room with pictures of Krishna and Prabhupada and devotional paraphernalia, so much so that I thought the room looked like a temple. We gave Mukta some privacy while the hospital staff cleaned him and transferred him to the new bed. Then we entered the room and Loka began leading kirtan.
Chedi sat at his father’s right hand, and Loka sat by Mukta’s head. Both obviously have great love for their father and brother, as evidenced by their fond and intimate ministrations. Soon many other devotees arrived: Varshan Swami, Soma, Tapapunja and his wife Kamalavati, Nityodita and his wife Ria and her two sisters Vidya Ratna and Purnamasi and her husband Tattva, Sri Galim (who flew up from Texas on short notice), Yogini, Sankirtan and his son Sanjaya, Mother Jaya Sri, Rupanuga & Vani, Vrsni, Sacipita, Devavati, Gopalasapriya, Purnima, Mother Chaitanya with her daughter Dove and two grandchildren, the brahmacaris Balarama Chandra, Chaitanya and Krishnadas. There were others also, but I do not know their names.
I guess that maybe 20-25 devotees packed the room at once, but throughout the day probably 40-50 devotees came to offer respects, including Damodar who visited in the morning and Loka’s other two sons who came earlier in the week. There was standing room only. There were more devotees standing outside the door.
Devotees brought deity garlands from New Vrindaban; two or three garlands were placed around Mukta’s head. Tapapunja played the mrdanga and I played a small accordion. Someone else played karatals softly. Several devotees took turns leading kirtan.
Devavati placed what appeared to be a small Salagram deity on Mukta’s chest. Kamalavati sprinkled what appeared to be Ganga water and Vrindaban dust on Mukta. Mother Gopa held a large framed picture of Prabhupada at the foot of Mukta’s bed.
I was especially impressed with the great love emanating from the devotees which filled the room. Everyone was there to support their dear friend and godbrother in his momentous passage from this life to the next. We were sad to see him go, but glad to be able to help make his passing more auspicious by chanting the Holy Names.
Krishna says in Bhagavad-gita: “And whoever, at the time of death, quits his body, remembering Me alone, at once attains My nature. Of this there is no doubt. Whatever state of being one remembers when he quits his body, that state he will attain without fail.” (B.G. 8:5-6)
Of course, Mukta and I had our disagreements at times through the years, as can be expected in any family, but to be truthful, I was amazed that I had forgotten all these things. There in the hospital room with Mukta lying unconscious and all of us chanting, I could only remember Mukta’s service for Krishna, his devotion to Prabhupada, and his wonderful qualities. My heart was absorbed in love for Mukta: a love that I frankly did not know existed. It is said that one doesn’t realize what is important to them until it is taken away. Now I was all too conscious of my great affection for Mukta, and I regretted not always being kind to him while he was with us.
I believe Srila Prabhupada taught us the proper way to perceive our sincere godbrothers, despite their faults. Once Prabhupada was informed that one of his uninitiated disciples had begun to backslide and was not always strictly following the regulative principles. Prabhupada declared: “No, no, he is very good boy. . . He is keeping Jagannatha within his beadbag and chanting. . . No, he’s our well-wisher, a good boy.” (Srila Prabhupada, cited by Hari Sauri Dasa in A Transcendental Diary: Travels With His Divine Grace A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, Volume 1 (pp. 156-157).
Prabhupada did not see the faults of this disciple. Prabhupada only saw the devotion, just as Radharani sees only the good in others. I believe if others might criticize, Prabhupada would have said the same thing about Muktakesh: “No, no. He’s a good boy.”
About 4:30 p.m. a hospital staff member entered the room and disconnected Mukta’s breathing tube, as Chedi and Loka had requested. Now Mukta had to breathe on his own. He also hooked Mukta up intravenously to a bottle of morphine which would relax his body, slow his breathing, and make him as pain-free and comfortable as possible.
I had spoken to this staff member earlier in the company of Chedi and he said that normally a patient in this condition may continue to breath for an hour. Perhaps four hours at most. He also explained that normally before a person dies, their breathing becomes shallow and irregular and less frequent. There may be a prolonged time of stillness between each breath. This is known as agonal respiration.
When Mukta was taken off life support, our emotions became very strong and tears flowed freely, because we knew Mukta’s remaining time in this world was coming to an end. The kirtan became more intense. Loka began kissing his brother. Chedi’s tears flowed profusely. Even Mukta shed a few glistening tears periodically. The room became very hot and stuffy, as we had to close the door to the hallway to keep from disturbing the other patients and hospital staff. Although cool air blew from the heater/air conditioner vent, it had little effect. It became so warm that Mukta began perspiring, and periodically Loka and Mother Devavati wiped the sweat from his brow and saliva from his lips.
At 5 p.m. I left to play organ at a Good Friday Church Service, but I had the feeling that when I returned Mukta would still be breathing. I had told Chedi earlier, "Your father is so stubborn, I wouldn’t be surprised if he kept breathing for another 12 hours after life support is removed."
When I returned to the hospital shortly before 9 p.m., Mukta was still alive and breathing. The kirtan had stopped for a while and devotees were speaking about Mukta. I heard Varshan Swami glorify Mukta and his enthusiasm for chanting japa loudly.
At 9 p.m. an announcement was broadcast on the hallway loudspeaker: “Visiting hours are over. All visitors must leave now.” Quickly I ducked out of the hallway, entered Mukta’s room and stationed myself near his bed with my accordion. I wasn’t planning on leaving before Mukta. I picked up my accordion and the kirtan resumed. Several times the nurses and staff knocked on the door, apparently in an attempt to get us to leave, but no one budged. We did however chant softly as not to cause the hospital staff any additional stress.
Gradually the space between Mukta’s breaths became longer and longer and it seemed he was going to leave soon. At around 9:35 or 9:36, he took his last breath. There was no more movement in his chest. We waited and waited for the next breath. Nothing. No more movement.
Nityo stood up next to Mukta and examined him closely. Mother Devavati placed her fingers on Mukta’s neck to feel for a pulse, then sprinkled some Ganga water on Mukta’s lips. The kirtan softened. Mukta was unmoving. Gadadhara said he noticed an immediate change in the color of Mukta’s face. Two small silver tears appear in the corners of Mukta’s eyes. Gauranga Kishore (Narada Muni’s son) was leading the chanting when Mukta departed.
Someone called for a nurse who came with a stethoscope. The room became silent as she listened for a heartbeat. I could not hear what she said, but it seemed she said something like: "We must have a doctor confirm."
Song sheets were passed out and Nityodita lead the singing of Song for a Departed Vaishnava, accompanying himself on the harmonium.
Shortly after this I departed for my home. I was extremely grateful to be able to assist in the passing of Muktakesh in some small way by providing pleasing musical accompaniment for the kirtan. I was briefly reminded of the passing of Bhismadeva, the legendary warrior, statesman, and moral exemplar in the Mahabharata, renowned for his expertise in fighting, his vow of lifelong celibacy, and his unwavering commitment to dharma, as both Bhisma and Mukta were maharatis in their own respective fields of expertise: Bhisma on the battlefield and Mukta in the parking lots.
“Thus Bhismadeva merged himself in the Supersoul, Lord Sri Krishna, the Supreme Personality of Godhead, with his mind, speech, sight and actions, and thus he became silent, and his breathing stopped. Knowing that Bhismadeva had merged into the unlimited eternity of the Supreme Absolute, all present there became silent like birds at the end of the day. Thereafter, both men and demigods sounded drums in honor, and the honest royal order commenced demonstrations of honor and respect. And from the sky fell showers of flowers. O descendent of Bhrgu, after performing funeral rituals for the dead body of Bhismadeva, Maharaja Yudhisthira was momentarily overtaken with grief. All the great sages then glorified Lord Sri Krishna, who was present there, by confidential Vedic hymns. Then all of them returned to their respective hermitages, bearing always Lord Krishna within their hearts.” (Srimad-bhagavatam 1.9.43-47)
Muktakesh dasa, ACBSP (Ronald Burstein) (1947-2007).
Cintamani dasa
Jean Claude joined ISKCON in Montreal, Quebec, and took diksa from Bhaktipada at a fire sacrifice in Montreal in November 1980. He received the name Cintamani dasa. A couple years later, when Bhaktipada called all of his Canadian disciples to move to New Vrindaban, Cintamani was one of the first to heed the call of the spiritual master. Within a short time, he showed himself to be an excellent picker. I went out on the pick with Cintamani for a few months.
On our three-man party, he served as our cook. Cintamani loved cooking. He derived a special pleasure in preparing food for Krishna and watching his godbrothers eat the remnants. As I recall, in the mornings he made a steamed rice dish with vegetables. We marveled at the sweetness of his preparations, and when we complimented him on his cooking, he replied, “You can thank Srimati Radharani, Lord Krishna’s consort. I meditate on her when I prepare our meals, and she makes my preparations very sweet and tasty.”
After a few weeks I discovered the real reason why Cintamani’s rice dish was so sweet: he added an entire cup of sugar to the preparation while cooking! I was shocked, as I understood too much sugar is not good for the body, and I chastised him, “You’re not allowed to add sugar to our rice prep as long as you’re on my party!” After that, our breakfast was not as sweet, but it was healthier.
Bhaktipada and Cintamani dasa during kirtan at the temple. Photo from Bhaktipada’s Sri Vyasa Puja book (September 2, 1985).
Another time, Cintamani and I traveled to Minnesota to do the pick in the Land of 10,000 Lakes. As I recall, our scores were satisfactory, but we ran into a problem when we got arrested in a small town outside of St. Paul. I don’t remember the name of the town.
Normally, when we were stopped by police, we acted frightened, “Oh no! Sorry, officer. Please don’t arrest us! We didn’t know we were breaking any laws. Please let us go and we won’t bother you anymore. Please?” After some time, we discovered that cops in the big cities would let us go with a warning, but small town cops liked to bring us in to the police station. I guess in small towns they don’t have much to do, as the crime rate is normally lower than in the cities. But even when the cops brought us in to the station for questioning, they usually let us go with a warning: “Stay out of our town and don’t come back!”
Behind bars.
But the cops in this small town outside of St. Paul must have thought they had a major crime case on their hands. They locked Cintamani and me in jail, where we stayed for THREE DAYS! They must have searched our van thoroughly in hopes to find something major to charge us with. But they couldn’t find anything incriminating. In jail, Cintamani and I had separate adjacent cells. We couldn’t see each other, but we could hear each other, and we talked quite a bit. If I put my face against the bars of my cell, and if Cintamani stuck his arms out between the bars of his cell, I could see his hands.
Our days were not unhappy, although the time passed slowly. Upon rising in the morning, we chanted our rounds, and sang the Samsara Prayers, Prayers to Lord Nrsimhadeva, and the Jaya Radha Madhava prayers, dancing in our cells. When the jailers fed us, we ate whatever was vegetarian, after first offering it to Krishna. We passed the time by telling each other pastimes from Krishna’s childhood, which we remembered from reading Prabhupada’s Krishna Book. On the third day, the jailers released us. No explanation. No charges. No nothing, as far as I remember. Perhaps they might have confiscated our stickers, I don’t remember. Cintamani was a good partner. We got along well.
Cintamani left New Vrindaban around the same time Bhaktipada ordered us to begin singing the temple services in English instead of Sanskrit and Bengali (c. 1988). I don’t know why he left. Apparently he did not approve of the liturgical changes Bhaktipada was introducing. I haven’t heard from him since he left.
Cintamani and the author (c. late 1986).
Bhima dasa
Jeff Maclean met the devotees at the Athens Ohio preaching center when he was a student at Ohio University. Although he was not very tall, he was powerfully built, and enjoyed body building, wrestling, and boxing. When he got his university degree in 1984, he came to New Vrindaban. During his initiation ceremony, Bhaktipada named him Bhima dasa, in memory of the great ancient Indian hero Bhima, the voracious eater and performer of Herculean tasks.
The warrior Bhima, also known as Bhimasena, was the second of the five Pandava brothers, born to Queen Kunti and the wind god Vayu. His divine parentage endowed him with extraordinary physical strength, making him one of the most formidable warriors in the Hindu epic Mahabharata. Bhima was renowned for his immense strength, bravery and loyalty to his family and friends. When angered, Bhima could be ferocious. During the Battle of Kuruksetre, Bhima killed Dushasana—the second son of King Dhritarastra and Queen Gandhari—split open his chest, pulled out his heart, and ate it.
A vintage oleograph depicting Bhima, by Ravi Varma Press.
I always enjoyed my godbrother’s company, as Bhima was dedicated to Bhaktipada’s mission. In his homage to his spiritual master, published in Bhaktipada’s 1985 Vyasa Puja book (p. 39), Bhima explained:
When I had first asked initiation from you, I asked also if I could have sankirtan as my eternal service. Devotional nectar is to be found most abundantly flowing in this service of sankirtan. Krishna is the doer, so where is the austerity? What is this illusion called “The Grind?” There is only your mercy grinding away at the stone-hard surface of my heart, until it is supple and humble enough to receive Krishna’s mercy.
We have seen two Maharathis, Chediraja and Mathura, pass from this world in this great endeavor to build this temple [the proposed Great Temple of Understanding.] You said they [Chedi and Mathura] would choose to come back until it is finished. This is your desire. We have you, and you have Krishna, so what is the need for worry but to fight for the sake of fighting, eternally. Through your vision, you have seen that Krishna has already built this temple; it is only a matter of our surrender. Our endeavor to build this temple should be so intense, so weighted with the gravity of this surrender, that it pulls the rest of this [ISKCON] movement in with it. This is Brijabasi Spirit. Who will not take up this sankirtan spirit and help you in your mission?
Artist’s painting of the proposed Great Temple of Understanding at New Vrindaban
[Bhima continued] Your mercy is priceless. Of this there is no doubt. And so my offering to you, Srila Bhaktipada, is that I shall never leave this service. You have said, “There will always be a pick, whether in Lot Loka [the planet of parking lots] or in Goloka Vrindaban [Krishna’s eternal planet in the Spiritual Sky]. So whatever pleases you, I will choose eternally.
Forever your dog (woof),
Bhima dasa
Once, while Bhima (I think it was Bhima) and I were out on the pick together, we traveled from Upstate New York into New York City. While driving south on I-87 around the city of Yonkers, I noticed yellow-gray smoke blowing out of our dashboard air vents. This was not a good sign! I pulled over immediately on the shoulder, ran out, opened the hood and saw flames coming from our engine. “Our engine is on fire!” I exclaimed to my partner, Bhima dasa.
We did not have a fire extinguisher in our vehicle. I shouted to Bhima to get some blankets. Perhaps we could suffocate the fire. At that moment, a New York State Trooper pulled over, grabbed a fire extinguisher from his car, and sprayed the engine. Within a few seconds, the fire was extinguished. As I recall, we found a payphone and called Dharmatma. We abandoned the van and got a ride to the New Vrindaban satellite center in Brooklyn. Dharmatma (I assume) made arrangements to salvage our van, and he got us another van within a day or two.
Another time Bhima and I were working a big pick, and we had an opportunity to do even bigger. I don’t remember the circumstances. The place was getting hot, but I took a gamble and rather than leave, I chose to continue as the pick was so huge, and we got arrested. The rest of our day was shot, as the police detained us for many hours. Bhima later told me, “You got too greedy! We should have split BEFORE we got nipped by the cops!”
Kirtan at New Vrindaban. Bhima plays the conga drum on the far right (October 1987). Photo enhanced and colorized by AI.
This photo appeared in Brijabasi Spirit (October 21, 1987), in the article titled “Sankirtan Festival”:
In a four-day festival of feasting, dancing and ecstatic kirtan, New Vrindaban’s traveling Brijabasis came home with a challenge to us “homebodies.” It was a devotional competition in the kitchen, as the farm devotees and the sankirtan devotees pooled their expertise in a transcendental cook-off. Srila Bhaktipada, in judging the competition, said that all the preparations were exceptional, and that we’d have to do it again to determine the winner!
Devotees who took Wednesday feast were serenaded by Cakravarti Maharaja and his synthesizer. The roaring kirtan attracted the women also, and the men’s prasadam hall was transformed into a swinging, sweating, jumping mass of prasadam-intoxicated devotees.
Bhima left New Vrindaban a few months after his photo was published in Brijabasi Spirit. During the 1987 Christmas Marathon he was on the pick with two New Vrindaban teenagers, Chaits (Chris Walker) and Dharmaraja (Devon Wheeler), and the boys told him that Bhaktipada had been giving fellatio to the teenage boys. (This episode is discussed in Gold, Guns and God, Vol. 4, Chapter 46.) The next time Bhima returned to New Vrindaban, he visited his spiritual master in private to question him. Bhima explained:
I went to see Bhaktipada to confront him; to ask him about the allegations of sexual impropriety with the teenage boys. But first, I sat at Bhaktipada’s feet and began massaging them. I wanted to be in touch with his body, in case he had a stressful physical reaction to my questions, like a lie detector test. After a few minutes of pleasant small talk, I told him what I heard from the teenage boys, and his feet started twitching and his leg jerked. He raised his voice, “It’s all lies! The boys are lying.” But I instinctively knew Bhaktipada was lying, not the teenagers. I was devastated. Someone I loved very much turned out to be a cheater. I left his service immediately.
Today, Bhima lives on his farm in rural Western Massachusetts, and works remotely for a Prasadam Distribution Program in Manhattan, New York.
Dayasara dasa
Dayasara dasa (Damian Herrod, b. December 20, 1950) was from Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. He received diksa in April 1975 in Melbourne. He came to New Vrindaban in the early 1980s because he admired Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada and wanted to serve his mission. He and I went on the pick together. He used a fake identification card because his Visa to visit the United States had expired. He went by the name of Gary Wright. I found him to be a pleasant fellow, with a distinctive Australian accent. We got along well together.
When we went out together on the pick, I served as party leader and cook. When I prepared our breakfast on the Coleman camp stove in the back of the van, I usually made kitchari. I stirred all the ingredients and spices in the beginning, then let the mixture boil, then I turned down the heat to a simmer, and when the water evaporated and the kitchari acquired a thick porridge-like consistency, I offered it to Krishna on our little dashboard altar and served the devotees on my party.
But Dayasara had his own personal preference exactly how I should prepare the kitchari. He requested, “Hrishikesh, please put the butter in the pot at the very end of the cooking, when the kitchari is ready to be served. I especially like to have globules of half-melted butter floating on top of my bowl of kitchari!” Of course, that was a reasonable request, and from then on, I added the butter at the end of the cooking.
In 1986, Dayasara served at the New Vrindaban satellite center in Kent Ohio. At that time, he went by the name John Jung. He left New Vrindaban and returned to Australia in the late 1980s. I think he thought Bhaktipada’s ”De-Indianization of Krishna Consciousness”—chanting the temple services in English instead of Sanskrit and Bengali, using Western instruments instead of Indian instruments in the temple, awarding sannyasa to women, etc.—was a deviation from the Krishna conscious program which his spiritual master had established.
Dayasara, in center with blue-gray chaddar, with Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada in Australia.
Krishna parade: Maitreya-Muni, Hrishikesh (Henry Doktorski), Dayasara (Damian Herrod), Devanananda-Pandit (Dennis Moreau), Pavana (Jeff Spicher), Rupanuga (Ramesh Patel), Jyotirdhama (Joe Pollock, Jr.) and Premarnava (Charles Clayton, with megaphone) outside the Delf Norona Museum in Moundsville. Photo by Nelson Hooker (May 1987).
74-year-old Dayasara, Facebook photo (June 17, 2025).
Bhakta Dean
Bhakta Dean never took initiation, but he was a big picker. He appeared to be about 20 years old, very handsome, with a blond crewcut. I don’t think he ever shaved up. On the pick he was HUGE! He collected more than me. When he was on Nityo’s party, or Bhaktisiddhanta’s party, he used hats as paraphernalia, something I never was able to do. Sundarakar at Palace Press printed our stickers, but after a time, Sundarakar began printing caps. They were white, made of cotton. Not as substantial as a baseball cap, but Sundarakar printed logos and names of sports teams on the front of the hat. Dharmatma purchased the hats from Taiwan and Sundarakar printed the logos on the hats. Pickers asked $10 per hat. Many pickers increased their collections by selling hats at big events. Somehow, I never took up selling hats, as I was doing quite fine asking $5 for a bumper sticker.
Bhakta Dean was my picking partner for about month. We were traveling to an event, I think in Washington D. C. from Connecticut, I believe. I drove our van through Connecticut and crossed into Manhattan. I drove across the Hudson River on the George Washington Bridge, and pulled off on the shoulder. I asked Bhakta Dean to drive, as I was very tired and wanted to take a nap. I instructed him to take the New Jersey Turnpike south and when he crossed the Delaware River into the State of Delaware, to wake me up. I fell asleep in the back of the van quickly.
I woke up an hour later. When I looked out the front windshield, I saw a road sign: Delaware Water Gap! Bhakta Dean totally missed the exit for the New Jersey Turnpike some 75 miles earlier! We wasted over an hour. I told him to let me take the wheel and I’d get us back on course.
In those days, we liked to save time. Instead of pulling off the freeway, stopping the vehicle, and switching places, we’d change seats while driving 70 mph down the road. Of course, we wouldn’t do this if there was traffic, but if the road was clear and no other cars around, we’d switch seats while driving.
First the driver scooted up against the steering wheel. Then the relief driver climbed into the driver’s seat immediately behind the driver. It was a little tight, but do-able. Then the driver slid over about a foot to the right while the relief driver put his hand on the steering wheel. The driver then let go of the steering wheel and slid out of the seat keeping his left foot on the gas pedal. Finally the relief driver put his right foot on the gas pedal, and took complete control of the vehicle. We were quite proud of our efficiency. I was also proud of our safety record. On my parties, we didn’t do anything stupid or foolish, although there were times we drove all night long to get to an event hundreds of miles away the next day.
We learned a few tricks to help us keep awake. Of course, we’d lower the windows especially in winter. It’s difficult to fall asleep when you’re freezing. Another trick was standing while driving. We straightened our body in the driver seat so our rear end did not touch the seat. This was strenuous, but it made falling asleep impossible. If nothing else worked, we finally pulled over, found a place to park, climbed into the back of the van in our sleeping bags, and took rest. Too many New Vrindaban devotees were injured, and some even killed, in late-night car crashes. My wife, while on the pick was involved in a car crash near Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. She was taken to the hospital, but luckily had no major injuries.
Once during a long drive from Buffalo to New York City, I pulled over on an exit on State Highway 17 to take rest. The area was hilly, near the Catskill Mountains, with much forest. After sleeping a few hours, I heard some unusual noises from the front of our van. After a moment, the vehicle starting jerking, moving upwards in small increments. SOMEONE WAS JACKING UP OUR VAN! I got out of my sleeping bag and threw open the curtain hanging behind the driver and passenger seats. There in front of us was a car parked in front of us, and a young black man jacking up our car. I imagine he intended to steal our tires. I yelled, “Hey! Get outa here!"
He was surprised to see me, and he looked disappointed. Without saying a word, he dropped our vehicle back down, picked up his jack, got in his car and drove off down the highway.
Gurukula Alumnus
In addition to adult devotees, I once went out on the pick with a teenage boy. I will not mention his name, for privacy concerns, but merely refer to him as GA (Gurukula Alumnus). He born in 1969 in Mexico. His mother joined ISKCON when he was five years of age. Later, she brought him to New Vrindaban around the age of ten (approximately) where he grew up in the Nandagram Gurukula. He was sent to the New Vrindaban satellite center in Greenpoint, Brooklyn in the spring of 1985. At this time, he was about 16 years old. GA was an extremely pleasant fellow, and eager to please his authorities. I took a party of three, myself, Muktakesh and GA out to work the Pathmark and ShopRite supermarket and Kmart department store parking lots in Brooklyn. We especially liked working the Pathmark Supercenter in East Flatbush as it was huge and extremely busy; busy enough for three pickers in the lot.
New Yorkers have extremely tough exteriors (you have to, to survive in a “rat eat rat” world), but they have soft hearts, once you punch through the hard crab shell. New Yorkers have no time to waste, they are always busy running here and there, and life can be tough. We developed an extremely tough approach ourselves, in order to get their attention, then immediately got to the donation part. Most people, as I recall, stopped just a second or two to look us over and stare into our eyes after we asked for the donation. After gauging our sincerity, and finding it apparently credible, they handed us a dollar bill, then went on to their business at hand, loading groceries into their cars. We had no problem with security. The security guards didn’t care for solicitors, they were busy looking for shoplifters, purse snatchers and car thieves.
Once while working the Pathmark/Bradlees Supercenter in Woodbridge, New Jersey during the Christmas Marathon, I observed a young black man walk out of the store into the parking lot carrying an enormous stereo speaker on his shoulder. A few minutes later, I saw the same man walk out of the store carrying another speaker. Later I saw him carrying a huge amplifier, turntable and radio tuner. None of the items were in boxes. He had stolen an entire state-of-the-art stereo system, probably worth over $1,000 from the stereo display area, and got away with it. The store was so busy, jam packed with hundreds and hundreds of shoppers, the store security guards had no idea what was happening under their noses.
After I left New Vrindaban, I lost track of GA, but when I began researching the history of New Vrindaban in 2002, someone gave me his phone number. On September 26, 2003, I talked with GA on the phone for ten or fifteen minutes. Following is an excerpt from our conversation, which reveals the trauma experienced by many, many boys at New Vrindaban:
Truly, the fact is that something has taken place in the movement. It happened to me when I joined ISKCON in Mexico in 1974 at the age of five, then in New Vrindaban. One time a student, SH, he had given Sri Galim a blow job in the shower when Haridhama walked in. One time another student BT gave Gopinath a blow job. . . .
I’m not going to blame anybody. Nobody ever thought much of anything. Things just happened. Once I woke up lying on Manihar’s stomach. . . . I don’t want to hurt Srila Prabhupada’s movement. It hurts me to see other devotees go through that. I don’t want to throw names. I’m not happy about that, but I need to grow and learn from it.
I loved Bhaktipada. I protected him. We’ve done some dumb shit and it’s costing us. I don’t want anybody’s money. I have no interest in digging up the past. All you get is dirt. If I had said anything when it had happened, I would have been stoned; put out on highway 250. I protected Bhaktipada. I loved Bhaktipada. I’m not afraid to admit that. . . .
I can’t share this with anyone because it hurt my wife. Once I shared with her: when it happened, how it happened, and it was very painful to me. I’ve been like a rock. I don’t like to tell anything. If anybody had a thing about going to court and suing somebody, I would. I’ve been severely beaten, I’ve gone through a lot of nonsense. I’m not interested in that. I want nobody’s money. Maybe I’m in denial, maybe I need to deal with it. Let it be mine. Not at the cost of other devotees; not at the cost of anybody else. And so I have no interest in digging up the past, because you just get dirt. It’s not a healthy situation.
Believe it or not, I live on the joy, on all the wonderful things we have shared. I live on that. I know you, Hrishikesh. I went out on the pick with you in New York and we were doing Kmart lots. I had a blast with you. I think of Muktakesh, me and him in New York, with Ajeya, with Nityo. I don’t think of the other devotees putting their hand on my cock and thinking how I’d like to get back to them, or get back on them. Even beatings; I took forty paddles one time when I got back from sankirtan ’cause there was a misunderstanding of where I was. I mean, just NONSENSE!
I don’t have time. I don’t think Prabhupada wasted his time when he came and touched my heart. I intend to push this movement on for the next twenty years. And there’s a lot of trash that we have to clean up and have to go through in order to be successful. I’m in training right now, so I can’t live on that. Yeah, you’re gonna raise up stuff that came up: I’ve had sexual activity with YLN, he had it with SH and C, and you can go throw a lot of this garbage, of people agitated, infiltration, this position which they were not mature or should be in, and because of that, you can’t live there and start blaming people.
I have done wrong things, wrong things have happened to me, and I want to be forgiven. I want to move on, I want to grow from here. I don’t want to think every time I see a devotee that he had his hand on my cock, and I can’t even talk to him. I’d like to be able to say, “Whoa, man! That was fucked up, I didn’t appreciate it, I didn’t understand it at the time, but I do now. I hope you don’t do that again because if you do I’ll break your hand.”
But I’m not in that place. I’m sharing this with you because you’re asking me. And only, if it happened with Bhaktipada, if you want to live in the gossip, there’s so much shit. And I was there. I was Bhaktipada’s servant. I saw a lot of it. . . .
I wasn’t gay or homosexual; I’ve had a lot of people give me blow jobs. Ganga, a teacher, was blowing SE, a student, while he was blowing me a different night. There was a lot of teachers having a lot of nonsense. It was really sad. An older student, YLN, was doing kids. If you really want to go back and forth with this nonsense, it’s really sickening. . . .
I have all the respect for the other devotees. I do not want to bad mouth or offend anyone. I have caused a lot of disappointment to other devotees.
Perhaps one reason why more former gurukula students do not talk about this time in their lives is because they feel that since they engaged in these forbidden sexual activities, they are as guilty as the adult perpetuators. They hesitate to point out accomplices, because then they may be pointed out themselves.
GA’s first marriage to a New Vrindaban girl ended in divorce. Years later, while on a bus trip from Texas to California, he met a friendly and attractive woman at a bus depot in Arizona, and the two eventually were married. They presently live in Long Beach, California. From time to time GA visits the Los Angeles ISKCON temple. For more about the children of New Vrindaban, see Gold, Guns and God, Vol. 4.
18-year-old GA appears in this photo from Bhaktipada’s Vyasa Puja book, p. xiv (September 5, 1988).
In this photo, Bhaktipada prepares to shoot a flaming arrow into the heart of a fifteen-foot-tall straw effigy of the Raksasa Ravana, the antagonist in the Hindu epic, Ramayana. This is the grand spectacle of Ravan Dahan, which is celebrated with much fanfare during the annual Vijayadashmi (or Dussehra) festival. The symbolic act of shooting the flaming arrow commemorates the epic moment from the Ramayana when Lord Rama defeated the ten-headed demon king Ravana. It represents Lord Rama’s triumph of good over evil, and leaves the audience in awe as the towering effigy is set ablaze. Also in this photo appear: Visvamurti (William Stacnowski), Cintamani dasa (Jean Claude), Chakravarti Swami (Peter Kaufmann), Suta, the son of Samba and Isani (Mark and Ellen Schramm), and Krpamaya (John Sherwood). We think the photo was taken on October 2, 1987, the date of Ravan Dahan in that year.
Part Five: I Lose My Mojo.
It is said, “All things must pass,” and my career as a New Vrindaban maharathi collector gradually passed into memory. Two factors contributed to my decline:
(1) I lost my voice for a month or two and it never recovered fully
(2) My health took a turn for the worse.
I think it was in the summer of 1984 I worked a NASCAR race at Rockingham Speedway in North Carolina. The big money was in the parking lot as spectators poured in and parked their vehicles on the expansive lawn. Speedway employees directed the cars to the assigned parking spaces, and we were there hitting up the patrons even before they had a chance to get out of their vehicles. Sometimes we could make $200 per hour.
Eventually, when the time for the start of the race approached, the parking lot pick slowed down, and we had to leave the parking lot, as with less activity, security guards could spot us more easily. At this time, we went inside and worked the infield, where all the overnight campers parked their recreational vehicles. Many people sat on the roofs of their RVs to better watch the excitement of the race. In order to reach these people who were partying on the roofs of their vehicles, we climbed up the ladder to the roof and hit everyone up with stickers.
Unfortunately, with such close proximity to the deafening roar of the NASCAR engines, we had to shout into a prospective donor’s ear, or else they could not hear us. NASCAR races are extremely loud, with sound levels ranging from 100 to over 140 decibels, which is comparable to a jet taking off at an airport. The noise is physically felt, shaking bones, and can cause immediate hearing damage, unless a person uses ear plugs or other ear protection devices.
To make a long story short, I damaged my vocal chords working this race. I became hoarse, and my voice grew weaker and weaker. Finally I had to return to our van, as nobody could hear me anymore. I was very disappointed, as I had lost hundreds of dollars. Within a couple days, my voice disappeared entirely. I could only whisper. My vocal chords had become inflamed and they no longer were able to produce sounds needed for speech. Most cases of laryngitis last only a few days. My disability lasted for over a month, and my voice never recovered completely.
In the past, I had been able to enthusiastically lead kirtan for an hour or more, but now, even after my voice came back, I could only sing for ten or fifteen minutes. Then my voice began to weaken and I had to stop singing. Even today, 40 years later, my voice has not yet recovered to its previous strength.
When I lost my voice, I became terribly depressed. Without a strong voice, a picker couldn’t make much money. A picker’s voice was the all-important factor in his success. Some of New Vrindaban’s biggest pickers had incredibly strong and loud voices, such as Muktakesh. Mukta, and some other collectors, could work noisy environments like the NASCAR races without any strain on their voices. I, on the other hand, did not have a huge voice. I essentially damaged my voice beyond repair.
I felt I could no longer please my spiritual master by big scores anymore. What was to become of me? Big sankirtan collectors were greatly respected at New Vrindaban; while small collectors were often belittled by others. I would no longer have the respect that I had commanded for four years. I had gone from the highest to the lowest.
I take out a party of five pickers.
Back at New Vrindaban, Dharmatma and I devised a plan: I would take out four novice pickers and train them up on how to collect money in the parking lots. Our members were: myself, Bhakta Steve Crisp from England (soon to become initiated as Sahadeva dasa), Mathura dasa (Matthew Reid), and two black devotee godbrothers: Mukunda dasa and Dhananjaya dasa. (This was not Darren Anton, who Bhaktipada also named Dhananjaya a few years later.)
I took them to Ohio and at night we slept at the Columbus ISKCON temple. During the day, I taught them the intricacies of picking in the parking lots, and I dropped them off in individual parking lots. In an hour or two I’d drive back to see how they were doing. Mathura got so good at the pick, that within a month, Dharmatma took him off my training party and put him on a party with experienced pickers.
Unfortunately, in January 1985, while on a three-man party with Chediraja (Mark Bass—initiated in Buffalo, New York in 1971) and my Puerto Rican godbrother Kevala Bhakti (Carlos Núñez), Mathura (and Chediraja) died in his van at a Kentucky truck stop on a below-freezing night. They had turned on their portable propane heater but forgot to crack the van windows open. Chedi and Mathura were asphyxiated in their sleep, but Kevala Bhakti, who was sleeping on the floor where there was more oxygen, survived with severe frostbite on his toes. Bhaktipada cried tears of sorrow at the New Vrindaban memorial service for the two deceased pickers.
A humorous moment with traveling sankirtan devotees at Bhaktipada’s house (c. December 1984). Chediraja, with white cap, appears right behind Bhaktipada. Others in the photo, from left to right: The author, Ramachandra, and Daivata (with hand on his head). Curiously, there appears to be something that looks like a wedding cake on the table. Photo from Bhaktipada’s 1985 Vyasa Puja book.
After Mathura left my training party to join the big leagues, Chandramauli dasa Brahmachari (Frank Chiefa), a long-time New Vrindaban resident initiated in August 1973 (Chandramauli later took sannyasa in 1986), joined us. We drove to Buffalo New York on traveling sankirtan. Our van was quite crowded. As I recall, at night, I slept on the bench where we stored our cooking equipment and personal items, Chandramauli slept across the two front seats, Mukunda and Dhananjaya slept on the floor of the van tightly squeezed, and Sahadeva slept in the way back, on top of boxes of stickers.
We came back to New Vrindaban after a month. None of my students became great collectors, with the exception of Mathura and Sahadeva. I was happy that I could still render some small service to my spiritual master, but I sorely missed the excitement and thrill of working big events and collecting lots of money.
Stopped by the cops on I-5.
Sometime later, Sahadeva and I—and a third picker, I forgot who—were working on the West Coast, Oregon and Washington, as I recall. One day we were driving north on Interstate 5 on the way to Seattle, and I pulled off the freeway to fill up our tank with gasoline. I asked Saha to fill up the tank, and I went inside the gas station to purchase maps. I had acquired large fold-out maps of almost every state in the union. During my sankirtan career, I traveled to all but three of our fifty states. I never got to Montana or Wyoming or Alaska to do the pick; but I worked in all the other 47 states. So I had a large collection of maps, in addition to our Rand McNally road atlas.
Inside the gas station, I picked up a detailed map of Washington State and stepped outside into the parking lot. Our van was no longer at the gas pump, but it was parked in a parking space alongside the building. I hopped into the driver’s seat, made a quick check to make sure all three of us were accounted for, announced “You Prabhus ready to go?” and after their assent, I exited the parking lot and got back on the freeway.
About ten or fifteen minutes later, I heard a siren behind me, looked into my rearview mirror and saw flashing lights. “Geez, what now? I wasn’t speeding!” I thought. “We haven’t even started working today, and the cops are already on to us?”
I pulled over on the shoulder, and the state trooper exited his vehicle and walked over to our driver’s side window. He asked, “Did you fellas purchase gasoline at a gas station about ten miles south?” I replied, “Yes, officer. We did.”
Then the trooper announced, “You fellas skipped out without paying for your gas, and the gas station attendant called us to get you.”
I was shocked, and I looked at Sahadeva sitting in the passenger seat, “Didn’t you pay the gas station clerk?”
He answered, “No, Hrishikesh. I thought you paid for our gas when you went inside the store!”
I spoke to the officer, “Gee, I’m sorry, officer. I thought that my partner had paid for the gas, and he thought I had paid. Please let us return to the gas station and I’ll pay in full.”
The officer followed us back to the gas station, where we dutifully paid our bill.
Sahadeva dasa (Steven Crisp). Photo from Plain Living High Thinking/Brijabasi Spirit (Fall 1984), p. 24.
Picking innovations.
Eventually, my voice returned sufficiently for me to go back on the pick again, but my voice never returned to its former strength, and my voice tired more quickly. I could no longer work the long hours I used to work, nor work noisy events. Fortunately, what I lacked in brute strength, I compensated for in intelligence. I experimented with new venues where I could still collect money: such as upscale restaurants and high-end hotel lobbies. I also began asking for larger amounts of money, such as $5.00 or even $10.00. People who ate at expensive restaurants and took lodging in expensive hotels had money; much, much more than the budget-conscious housewives who clipped coupons from the newspaper and shopped at the neighborhood Kmart or Kroger supermarkets. I was amazed. I was still collecting $3,000 per week!
There weren’t many other sankirtan collectors who could do what I was doing: successfully working restaurants and hotel lobbies. It took a more sophisticated approach to get wealthy people to give you money. You also had to dress smartly. For about a year-and-a-half, my base of operations was the New Vrindaban satellite center at 1025 Manhattan Avenue in the Greenpoint neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York. We sankirtan devotees lived in the basement.
The New Vrindaban New York City satellite center, a 4-story building at 1025 Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, New York. I lived in the basement of this building with a few other brahmacharis for about a year-and-a-half around 1984-1985, when I did The Pick in the New York City environs.
Sometimes when I had a partner, I’d drive to high-end shopping malls. At other times, I worked alone. I’d drive through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel from Long Island City into Manhattan and work the luxury hotel lobbies. I worked the Waldorf Astoria, The Ritz-Carlton, the Algonquin, the Plaza hotel, and others. I especially loved the Waldorf Astoria, because they had a resident string quartet playing classical music in the evenings. When I arrived at a hotel, I’d park my van in the hotel driveway, enter the hotel, work the lobby and the bar for maybe twenty minutes, make $100 and then leave. It was lots of fun and it wasn’t difficult for me to make $300 per day.
Manhattan traffic was not fun, but I learned that when you want to make a right turn onto another street, you do not get in the right lane! Everyone in that lane wants to make a right turn and you’ll have to wait a long time. In addition, you do not get in the second from the right lane. You get in the third from the right lane, and then you can just zoom up to the traffic light, and turn right anyway, as the avenues are one-way streets which are four or more lanes wide and you can pass all those cars in the right two lanes.
I believe Adwaitacharya dasa (Emil “Eddie” Sofsky), a Prabhupada disciple initiated at New Vrindaban in July 1974, owned the building at 1025 Manhattan Avenue. He lived in a second-floor apartment with his wife Madri (Mary Campbell), a Bhaktipada disciple initiated on March 13, 1979. I, along with the other brahmacharis on the pick, lived in the basement, where there was an altar with small brass Gaura Nitai deities. Every morning we’d have a short morning program and sing the Samsara Prayers, the Prayers to Lord Nrsimhadeva, and Jaya Radha Madhava. We did our own cooking on a portable propane stove in the basement; mostly kitchari. Upstairs, Mother Madri was a fine cook, but we rarely got to taste her delicacies.
In the basement, I found a little, secluded cubby hole to sleep in. It was located directly under the sidewalk outside. During the day, the sun shone through cracks in the sidewalk above, illuminating my cubbyhole. At night, I could hear the conversations of drunks above on the sidewalk. I did not enjoy living there and it was not easy getting a good night’s sleep, but we tolerated the inconvenience as an austerity for Krishna.
For some reason, a disciple of Satsvarupa dasa Goswami Gurupada named Krishna Bhakta dasa also lived in the basement. He was a jolly fellow originally from Ireland, and we used to tease him while chanting kirtan. We Bhaktipada disciples monopolized the kirtan and chanted “Jaya Bhaktipada, Jaya Bhaktipada, Jaya Bhaktipada, Jaya Bhaktipada!” incessantly, and we wouldn’t let him chant “Jaya Gurupada.” I don’t think he ever got angry at us. He seemed to be a mellow fellow. Years later, he moved to New Raman Reti in Alachua, Florida.
Jyotindra dasa
While living at our New Vrindaban New York satellite center, I went out for a couple months with a fellow, Jyotindra dasa (James Manning), a Prabhupada disciple initiated in Portland Oregon in December 1976. He was a likeable fellow, but often spaced-out. One time during the Christmas marathon, I think in 1985, we drove an hour to the Mall at Short Hills, a wealthy New Jersey town. The mall was packed with people with money. We worked there several hours, until the mall closed. I made several hundred dollars. I walked to our van in the parking lot, a good distance and waited for Jyotindra. And I waited. And waited.
I walked back into the mall to the security office to see if Jyotindra had been arrested. No sign of him.
I walked to a pay phone and called Dharmatma. He answered the phone, although it was close to midnight and past his bedtime. Dharmatma always answered his phone, day or night, as sometimes sankirtan devotees got arrested by police and needed to be bailed out. We didn’t have cell phones in those days, so we had to communicate with each other through Dharmatma.
I asked, “Have you heard from Jyotindra? I seemed to have lost him.” Dharmatma answered, “I haven’t heard anything.”
I waited some more. Finally, I got fed up and drove back to Greenpoint, about 30 miles distant. I went east on I-78, then north on the New Jersey Turnpike, then under the Hudson River through the Lincoln Tunnel into Manhattan, then under the East River through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, and back to Greenpoint, where I fell asleep in my sleeping bag in my cubby hole under the sidewalk. The next day Jyotindra showed up, looking a little sheepish. I don’t think he ever explained to me what happened. If he did, I forgot what he said. I assumed he couldn’t find our vehicle and had to take a cab home.
D. dasa disappears.
The Mall at Short Hills wasn’t the first place I lost a picking partner. A few years earlier, I was working in Knoxville, Tennessee with my godbrother D. dasa. Since the parking lots were slow, we split up. I dropped him off at one parking lot, a Piggly Wiggly supermarket, and then I drove a mile or two to another lot, where I worked for a few hours. After maybe three hours, I went to check on D. dasa. I drove through the parking lot, but I couldn’t find him. Maybe he was in the bathroom. I waited fifteen minutes. No sign of D. dasa.
I called Dharmatma from a pay phone, but he had not heard from D. dasa. After a while I called the Knoxville police and asked if they had arrested D. dasa. (I used D. dasa’s legal name name when talking to the police dispatcher, but as D. dasa and I are still friends I will not mention his name here.) No dice. I went to work another lot, and came back again to the Piggly Wiggly. Finally, the sun set and I called Dharmatma and then the police again. No luck.
The next morning, I drove back to the Piggly Wiggly lot, and there was D. dasa sitting on the curb in front of the store! I asked him what happened, and he made up some cock-and-bull story. I don’t remember what he said. I only remember it was a lame excuse. Unbelievable. Only years later, I found out what had really happened: he met a sexy babe in the lot, they flirted, the babe liked him, and she took him home to her apartment where he spent the night making love to her. Lucky guy!
I heard D. dasa was a superb lover. D. dasa was quite precocious in the sexual department; he once told me that he started having sex with girls when he was only eight years old. (Jesus! I was 19, undoubtedly a slow learner.) Muktakesh told me D. dasa was extremely well endowed, as Mukta said he accidentally saw D. dasa’s private parts once while showering, and Mukta was shocked to see the enormity of D. dasa’s male organ.
Nothing like that every happened to me on the pick; meeting a hottie and going to bed with her. I guess I just wasn’t very good looking or sexy. When I was a little boy, I once asked my mother, “Mom, why wasn’t I born rich instead of good looking?”
My mother replied, “Henry, the good Lord cheated you on both!” [Endnote 79]
Or maybe Krishna was just protecting me; after all, I really did want to follow the regulative principles strictly. And I did. Sometimes I’d meet a really hot babe on the pick, and I’d usually say something inappropriate.
Once I hit up the hottest babe I ever personally met in my life in a Detroit inner-city supermarket. She must have been an extremely expensive escort girl, or something. Dressed to the max. Super-model porn-star figure. Gorgeous hair and makeup. While giving her my line and asking for a donation, I happened to say something inappropriate. Probably a compliment about her amazing figure. She got turned off and immediately left the store.
Another time, in a store parking lot, I hit up a woman with a slender waist and unnaturally-enormous, but extremely beautiful breasts. During my pitch, I made an inappropriate comment, and she disappeared. A minute or two later, her boyfriend appeared on the scene, and he was furious. He said something like, “Nobody says stuff like that to my girlfriend!”
I told him, “Gee whiz! I just gave her a sincere compliment.” But he didn’t buy it. He grabbed me by the arm and started punching my head. He was a big guy, bigger than me at least. I knew I couldn’t win a fight with him. I had only been in one fight in my entire life, in first grade against a second grade bully, and I lost terribly.
So I just turned myself into a wet noodle and slid to the ground. Once I was laying on the pavement in a helpless condition, his manhood was satisfied, and he and his girlfriend departed. I’m glad he didn’t start kicking me. I wasn’t hurt much. Maybe a couple bruises. After that, I refrained from complimenting women about their bodies, at least for a while. I suppose most women consider that is inappropriate talk when a guy first meets a girl, but I don’t understand why. I personally like it when a woman compliments me on my looks! It doesn’t happen very often, but it happens sometimes. I’m always flattered.
On the other hand, I guess extremely attractive women are often harassed by crude men and boys who whistle at them, make lewd remarks, etc. I suppose an attractive women might get dozens or even hundreds of these unwelcome comments if they appear in public. In that case, I can understand why a woman might feel uncomfortable if a strange man compliments their appearance. That must be why royal and wealthy women in the past were secluded from the public eye. They only traveled in a covered palanquin or in a carriage pulled by a horse escorted by security guards, who might cut out the tongue and sever the head of a disrespectful bystander who dared to make a lewd comment.
Brahma dasa
Another time my godbrother Brahma dasa (Robert Storch) was my partner in New York. He took diksa from Bhaktipada during the big New Vrindaban festival for Lord Nrsimhadeva in December 1980. He was a big picker. We worked the shopping malls mostly, as I recall. After the pick, at night, we parked our van on the street outside the building at 1025 Manhattan Avenue, but we were careful to always lock the hood shut with a chain and padlock, as thieves often stole batteries from unlocked cars and sold them at the nearby pawn shop. Once a thief cut through our chain and stole our battery. We found it the next morning at the pawn shop on the corner and bought it back.
Brahma, Aniruddha and Bhaktipada share a humorous moment. Photo from Bhaktipada’s 1983 Vyasa Puja book, p. 62.
Brahma dasa appears second from left, with black bead bag hanging from his neck. Photo from Bhaktipada’s Sri Vyasa Puja book (September 2, 1985).
From left to right: Nityodita, Aniruddha, Devadatta, Brahma, the author, unidentified black devotee (probably Dhananjaya), Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada, Chediraja (behind Bhaktipada), Ramachandra, Jagannath Mishra, unidentified boy, Gaurashakti, Pavitra.
One morning at 1025 Manhattan Avenue, I walked out of the front door of the building to get something out of our van parked on the street, but our van was gone. I figured Brahma must have taken the van to the coin Laundromat a few blocks away to do laundry. I waited a couple minutes. Suddenly Brahma walked through the door of the building and stood next to me on the sidewalk. “Where’s our van?” he asked. “I thought YOU TOOK IT to the Laundromat!” I exclaimed.
Just then, I looked south on Manhattan Avenue, and at that same moment I saw OUR VAN crossing the Avenue a couple blocks distant! “There’s our van! Someone stole it!”
We ran back into the building and knocked on Adwaita’s apartment door. He answered and we shouted, “Our van’s been stolen, and we just saw it crossing Manhattan Avenue a few blocks south!”
Adwaita immediately jumped into gear. He grew up in that neighborhood and he was incredibly street smart. He could be tough, if necessary. He rounded up a few other devotees, including Sankirtan (Andy Frankel) and we hopped into a few other vehicles in speedy pursuit. Eventually, we caught sight of the van and followed it. The driver recognized that he was being followed, and he began speeding and making sudden turns. We followed the best we could.
After making a turn on a side street just below the Pulaski Bridge which crosses Newtown Creek (the boundary between Brooklyn and Queens), we saw the van parked on the sidewalk. We stopped our vehicles, jumped out and ran up to the van. Nobody was there. The culprit had eluded us.
Just then, someone looked up at the bridge above us and yelled, “There he is! That must be him! He climbed the stairway up to the pedestrian lane on the bridge, and now he’s escaping into Queens!”
Some of us began running up the three flights of stairs to chase him, while others jumped into their vehicles to drive a few blocks to the vehicular entrance to the bridge.
I heard Adwaita caught up to him, ran out of the car and tackled him on the sidewalk. “You goddamn car thief! You’re gonna be sorry you messed with us!” (or something similar).
The fellow, who appeared to be Puerto Rican, was deathly frightened. But the fellow also recognized Adwaita, and begged, “Don’t hurt me, Eddie! Maybe you don’t know it, but we’re related! My cousin married your cousin!” (or something similar).
Adwaita didn’t believe him, but the fellow insisted, “Talk to your aunt Bessie! [I don’t remember the name of Adwaita’s aunt, but it might have been Bessie.] She knows who I am! She was at the wedding.”
Adwaita dragged the guy into his car, drove a few blocks, stopped, dragged the guy out of the car, and knocked on his aunt’s door. She opened the door and Adwaita told her what happened. She said, “Yes, Eddie. He’s correct. You guys are related by marriage, so don’t hurt him too much.”
I don’t know if Adwaita roughed him up a bit, but I do know that when we returned to our van, the keys were in the ignition, the car stereo was gone, along with some personal items, such as Brahma’s expensive fur coat. (Yes, Brahma had a luxurious knee-length fur coat!)
The fellow returned the stereo and other items which we replaced in our van, but Brahma never got his coat back.
Model with fur coat, similar to Brahma’s fur coat.
Death at a truck stop.
After the big January 1985 New Vrindaban Sankirtan Festival celebrating the December 1984 Christmas Marathon, we pickers were fired up more than ever to go out and collect money to help build New Vrindaban and spread Krishna consciousness throughout the land. We pickers met at Dharmatma’s Sankirtan House to receive our new assignments, get together with our new partners, and load our vans with stickers for the next thirty days on the pick.
One three-man party was sent to Eastern Ohio and Kentucky. Chediraja was the leader of the party, along with my godbrothers Mathura and Kevala Bhakti. Chediraja was a fired up brahmachari from the Bronx, New York City. He took diksa in 1971. I heard the temple authorities at ISKCON New York City traded him for a devotee from Buffalo ISKCON, like baseball teams sometimes trade players. Chedi served in Buffalo for some years, and was the ISKCON Buffalo temple president when Buffalo became part of Kirtanananda Maharaja’s GBC zone in 1975. When New Vrindaban took over Buffalo ISKCON, Chediraja was demoted to a humble Laksmi collector. Yet he never lost his enthusiasm.
Bhaktipada, sitting on his vyasasana at the New Vrindaban temple, receives a gift from Chediraja. Photo from As It Is, No. 2 (c. March 1985). Photo enhanced and colorized by AI.
Tapahpunja, who served as Sankirtan Leader in Buffalo, remembered Chediraja:
Chediraja, I recall, by his non-envious, ever-energetic disposition, made that transition [to Buffalo sankirtan leader] possible for me. Although he too was a little unfamiliar with a new position as Laksmi collector, he seemed to take the change of title in stride. In fact, he was not just mildly equipoised, he saw it as a great challenge, and was outright enthusiastic. And believe me, to do sankirtan in Buffalo in winter requires boundless enthusiasm.
A typical day in the life of a Buffalo traveling sankirtan devotee meant stuffing six or seven men into a car, driving an hour or more away from the city, and then dropping each man off at some remote country Kmart, with some American flag toothpicks, some Back To Godhead magazines, and a promise to be back in “maybe five or six hours.”
“Haribol, Prabhu! Do big! Don’t get nipped cuz the next back-up spot is twenty-two miles south of here!” I would announce.
Each devotee, Chediraja included, would just sort of look at me in utter disbelief, murmur something under his breath and march off into the holocaust. In this way, six men were working six small towns. I would work the seventh town for two or three hours, and then begin picking everyone up again.
Undoubtedly, this was a true test of one’s fidelity and spiritual fortitude in the face of the harsh weather and sparsely-filled parking lots. So, as I saw things, the measure of each devotee’s Krishna consciousness wasn’t what they said when they got out of the car, but what they had to say when they got back in some eight hours later.
Upon being “rescued,” each devotee displayed a particular temperament like grief, shock, relief, revenge, catatonia and frostbite to name a few. Chediraja, however, was always bubbling over with vivid accounts of the people he had engaged, the realizations which kept him pushing onwards, and sober reflections about his own shortcomings as a new sankirtan devotee under Bhaktipada’s care.
To say the least, those early hours of New Vrindaban’s budding sankirtan force were rife with many disappointing days of few fruits under austere conditions, but Chediraja, though meager in his collections was rich in his realizations. His unrelenting cheerfulness, in spite of untold austerities, should be the object of every sankirtan devotee’s meditation.
Once, I remember dropping off Chedi and another brahmachari, Manvantara, in Rochester, New York, at a local shopping mall. At the time, we were distributing fresh carnations and actually pinning them on people’s lapels, much to their astonishment. In the course of the day however, Chedi ran out of flowers. Having a healthy supply of pins, nevertheless, he plucked a few dozen leaves from a local bush and began fearlessly and boldly “pinning people up” with ordinary leaves. He always cited that experience years later as concrete proof that the paraphernalia passed out is secondary to the consciousness in which it is passed out. [Endnote 80]
Back to January 1985: In a truck stop parking lot in Covington Kentucky, Chedi and his party laid down in their sleeping bags to take rest. Unfortunately, they forgot to crack their van windows after they lit their portable propane heater. During winters, we routinely used a propane heater to keep the van above freezing. But we knew it was a matter of life and death that we crack the windows of our van before turning on the propane heater. Unfortunately, Chedi and his picking party forgot to crack their windows to allow fresh air and oxygen into the van.
Propane burns cleanly when there is enough oxygen, producing mostly carbon dioxide and water vapor. In a closed space such as a sankirtan van however, oxygen levels drop, causing incomplete combustion. This produces carbon monoxide, a colorless, odorless gas that binds to hemoglobin in your blood, and prevents oxygen delivery to vital organs in the body. Carbon monoxide can cause headaches, dizziness, nausea, confusion, chest pain, and eventually unconsciousness or death before a person realizes something is wrong.
Chediraja slept across the front seats of the van, Mathura slept on the deck in the back, and Kevala Bhakt slept on the floor in the back. It appears that Mathura figured out something was terribly wrong and tried to get up and open the van windows. But he had already breathed in a dangerous amount of carbon monoxide and he didn’t have the strength to get up off the deck. He struggled to move, but only managed to fall on top of Kevala Bhakti, where he died. The oxygen in the van had been depleted. When the oxygen levels fell far enough, even the propane heater could not maintain its flame, and the heater went out. The January temperatures were below freezing, and soon, the air inside of the van was the same temperature as the outside air.
Mathura and Bhaktipada, photo from As It Is, No. 2 (c. March 1985). Photo enhanced and colorized by AI.
Only Kevala survived. He slept on the floor, where oxygen levels were higher. And because Mathura’s body had fallen on top of him, Kevala was slightly warmer. Kevala, like Mathura, did not have the strength to get up and open the windows. He survived with severe frostbite on his toes, which later were amputated. Kevala ambulated with crutches for a very long time.
I went out on the pick with Kevala in April or May of 1986 for about a month. During our time together, Kevala told me about the catastrophe at the Kentucky truck stop. He said he was laying on the floor of the van in a semi-conscious, dreamlike state, and he suddenly heard a loud knocking on the side of the van. This was undoubtedly the police who had been called by the truck stop managers to investigate the apparently-abandoned van. Kevala told me he could not respond, he could not speak, his body was paralyzed, but he managed to tilt his head slightly to look up at the window of the van.
Kevala was amazed and delighted to see his sankirtan leader, Chediraja, looking into the van from outside. Chedi was all effulgent and glowing with sun beams brightly illuminating him from behind. Chedi was energetically knocking on the window and enthusiastically shouting, “Kevala! Kevala! Wake up! Come with us! It’s wonderful! Life is wonderful! We’re going back home! Come and join Mathura and me!”
Kevala could barely whisper, “I can’t! I can’t move at all!”
Just then Chedi disappeared, the van door opened—forced open by the police, who found two dead bodies and Kevala. They called for an ambulance to take Kevala to the nearest hospital. During the next sankirtan festival, in February or March, we all offered our respects to our dear departed godbrothers. Bhaktipada cried tears of sorrow at the ceremony to honor two of our dedicated pickers.
Kevala’s journey to Krishna.
In due course of time, Kevala gradually learned to walk again, and he went back out on the pick. He was stationed at the New Vrindaban preaching center in Cincinnati for a time. I wrote an article about him, “Hell to Heaven,” which was published in the June 1986 Brijabasi Spirit. Kevala, who is black, was born c. 1966 and raised in a Puerto Rican family in the Manhattan neighborhood known as Spanish Harlem, or “El Barrio.” It is one of the largest Hispanic communities in New York City, consisting mostly of Puerto Ricans, as well as Dominicans, Salvadorans, Cubans and Mexicans.
The community is noted for its contributions to Latin freestyle and salsa music. It is also noted for its high crime rate, the highest jobless rate in New York, teenage pregnancy, AIDS, drug abuse, homelessness, and an asthma rate five times the national average. It has the second-highest concentration of public housing in the United States. In my article I described how Kevala came to Krishna consciousness:
The sub-human inhabitants of this realm [Spanish Harlem] are addicted to the grossest sinful activities. Most of the adults loiter unemployed in the gutters, and most of the children drop out of school in their teens. Despite the incredible poverty-stricken conditions, money was not a problem—if you knew how to get it. The clever and ruthless lived comfortably, even opulently.
Drugs were easily available, and one could make thousands of dollars a week, buying and selling these illegal commodities. The successful dealers lived a high life of intense sense gratification, dwelling like nocturnal animals, awake at night, asleep in the day.
Carlos, 16, called Harlem his home. He and his friends were considered experts in the art of sense enjoyment. They would meet at dusk and plan the night’s forthcoming hellish delights. First, they would attend the cinema. The movies were a good place to kick back, get high, and warm up for the heavy sense enjoyment to come.
To satisfy their tongues they would gorge themselves on roasted flesh at their favorite restaurant and indulge in liquor. Such pleasure! Then they would catapult into the climax of the evening—the disco!
Discos were good places to meet women, especially if you had money and drugs. Dancing was a sensation amid the pounding 110 decibel music, the blinding strobe lights, and the writhing females. Powerful intoxicants stimulated the jaded senses to the ultimate heights of pleasure. What paradise! But these souls were unknowingly trapped in the clutches of illusion. How could such creatures be delivered from the darkness of ignorance?
The mercy came to Carlos one day in the streets of Spanish Harlem. A devotee of Krishna approached him and requested, “Please take this book sir, and your life will be sublime.”
Carlos replied, “No thanks, I don’t believe in religion.” But the devotee persisted, “This is not religion, sir, this is science, the science of the self. Chant the Hare Krishna mantra and be happy.”
Somehow, Carlos became interested. He was already familiar with mental exercises which helped acquire wealth, women and power. Perhaps this mahamantra would enable him to find the supreme enjoyment and mystic perfection he was seeking.
Carlos took the book and began meditating on the mantra with great attention and concentration. His plan, however, backfired! The more he chanted, the more miserable he became! For some reason, the sense gratification he used to relish with such delight became boring, even revolting.
He began losing his taste for meat eating, sex, intoxication and gambling. The more he tried to squeeze enjoyment from his senses, the more he suffered. At last he understood—it was the mantra! The holy name was changing his life!
Over and over again, the sound vibration echoed within his head, “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare; Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare.” It had enveloped him in its all consuming fire, burning his morbid material desires to ashes.
That same day he visited the nearest Hare Krishna temple. The devotees were very kind toward Carlos and taught him how to chant on beads, dance and sing before the deities, and take prasadam. His favorite preparation was halava; he ate mountains of the buttery sweet grains.
Carlos felt an incredible relief and great peace that he never knew before. Surely this was what he needed. He began to visit the temple every day. He would awaken at 2 a. m. every day and take the subway to the temple, arriving in time for mangal aroti.
He would spend the entire day at the temple. By chanting, taking prasadam, and washing pots, his life had changed. Carlos was an excellent pot washer, and he liked serving Krishna.
Unfortunately, because he was only 16, he couldn’t legally live at the temple without permission from his mother. Carlos tolerated his mother’s stubbornness. He traveled daily by train to the temple, returning to Harlem every night. After two months, however, Carlos became exasperated.
He delivered an ultimatum to his mother: “Either you sign the papers and let me live at the temple, or I’m moving out!” His mother was unfazed: “Better you live in the street gutter with the drunkards, than live with those Hare Krishnas!”
This was too much for Carlos to bear. He was so angry that he smashed a large porcelain table vase on the floor and left his family for good. Now he was a wandering brahmachari mendicant with nowhere to turn.
He begged the temple authorities to allow him to spend the night, but without the signed statement from his mother, it was too dangerous. What if she sued? Finally, when he began sleeping in the alley beside the temple, they let him move in.
During his stay at Brooklyn ISKCON, Carlos became enamored of one of the ISKCON gurus, Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada. Carlos met Bhaktipada at La Guardid International Airport on February 15, 1982, prior to Bhaktipada’s flight to Ghana, as noted in the April 1982 issue of Brijabasi Spirit. The temple authorities gave him permission to travel to New Vrindaban and take initiation. Within a year or two, he moved permanently to New Vrindaban. My article about Kevala Bhakti concluded:
Kevala Bhakti has since become fixed in Krishna consciousness and [re-] joined Srila Bhaktipada’s sankirtan team. While traveling on the road last year, he narrowly escaped death in an accident which left him crippled.
The accident, however, didn’t dampen Kevala’s enthusiasm to serve Srila Bhaktipada. Now, back on full-time sankirtan, walking on crutches even in ice and snow, he’s again benedicting the fallen souls by engaging them in the devotional service of the Lord.
After the fatal accident that claimed Chediraja and Mathura, Bhaktipada was asked why Kevala Bhakti lived, while Chediraja and Mathura Prabhus went back home. Bhaktipada replied, “Krishna has a special mission in store for him.”
After Bhaktipada was removed from his position as leader of New Vrindaban in June 1994, Kevala moved to Bhaktipada’s New York City Interfaith Sanctuary at 25 First Avenue in Manhattan, where most faithful Bhaktipada disciples and followers relocated. In June 2004, I saw Kevala again when I visited the Interfaith Sanctuary after Bhaktipada was released from prison. In 2005, Kevala finally rejected Bhaktipada as his spiritual master after a visiting young man claimed that the “spiritual master” tried to fondle his genitals during a private darshan. This is explained in Gold, Guns and God, Vol. 10.
Some years later, Kevala moved to India and married a local Hindu girl. He had a son. He died about three or four years later. Some say his wife’s family poisoned him in order to collect his money from his bank account. By no means was Kevala a wealthy man, but he had collected some money on the pick in the U. S. before moving to India to live on during his old age.
One of Kevala’s friends remembered, “Kevala Bhakti took reinitiation from Srila Bhakti Sundar Govinda Maharaj, the successor of Srila B. R. Sridhar Maharaj. He married a Bengali girl and lived in the Sri Chaitanya Saraswat Math Mandir in Nabadwip. He was very happy! He got cancer and went to Jagannath Puri and died there. He left this world at Chataka Parvat, in Puri. I was there with him! His family definitely didn’t kill him, and actually I’m sure they suffered a lot without his $1,000 a month U. S. government social security check. The burning ghat refused to burn him because they were trying to get an outrageous sum as he was a Westerner. So he is buried in Jagamnath Puri!” [Endnote 81]
Another friend remembered, “I knew Kevala in Navadwip at the Sri Chaitanya Saraswat Math. We had adjacent rooms and shared time together frequently. I believe his new name was Krishna Kanti, although my memory is weak. He had cancer and was trying various natural ways to cure it, but without luck. He was incredibly and contagiously enthusiastic especially for dancing in kirtan, even with one bum leg. I heard maybe six months later that he had passed.” [Endnote 82]
Part Six: The End of My Picking Career.
Earlier, I mentioned that there were two reasons why my collections decreased: the injury to my vocal chords and a decline in my health. I was able to continue doing big on the pick by compensating for my decreased vocal ability and energy level by working quieter venues where wealthier people congregated, such as high-end restaurants, luxury hotel lobbies, and vacation resorts. I could still collect big without expending lots of energy. But when my health declined further, there was no way I could continue to pick big.
When I joined New Vrindaban in August of 1978, I was a healthy, 160 lb. 22-year-old, five-foot-eleven-inch-tall male. I had lots of energy and stamina, qualities which were needed to do the pick at the time. However, after a few years, I noticed that I was losing weight and getting sick more frequently. At one point, my weight had dropped to 148 lbs. When I took my five-man training party to Buffalo, I got a nasty case of bronchitis and I was sick for a month or two.
Every winter I’d catch a cold, and the resultant cough would last a month or two. I just didn’t have enough energy to run around in the parking lots all day. I needed to stop and rest more frequently. The pick, which I once enjoyed so much, now became a misery for me. I was thirty years old, and already feeling like an old man.
I was unable to regularly do big on the “pick” anymore because my body had lost much strength, I believe, partly from the stress of the service itself as well as our customary abuse of and disregard for the body’s needs. We never took a day off and hardly rested. Seven days a week, from 11 a.m. or noon until 9 or 10 p.m. we were out collecting money to help build a new temple for Radha-Vrindaban Chandra (the presiding deities of the New Vrindaban community), which, coincidentally, was never built. On big days when there was a football game or car race we would often start picking at 8 or 9 a.m. and finish late at night, sometimes after midnight. I think my diet was also inadequate; which is why I lost so much weight.
I serve as co-director for Bhaktipada Books.
Finally in September of 1985 Bhaktipada, perhaps realizing that my days as a big collector were over, asked me to move back to New Vrindaban and—with a German Prabhupada disciple and follower of Hansadutta Swami from Berkeley California who had recently come to live at New Vrindaban: Chakravarti dasa (Peter Kaufmann)—establish an office for the publication and distribution of his books: Bhaktipada Books, later known as Palace Publishing. Chakravarti and I served as co-directors. During this time I became a “Weekend Warrior.” I went out on the pick every Friday morning and returned Sunday night. I worked events and lots in Pittsburgh, Columbus, Cleveland, and other nearby cities.
While back on the farm, I lived in the basement of Bhaktipada’s house, the one-story red brick structure right across from the entrance to Prabhupada’s Palace. As I recall, a handful of other brahmacharis also lived there. I liked living in close proximity to my spiritual master. Early in the morning, Bhaktipada normally attended two mangal aroti ceremonies: first he attended the mangal aroti at Prabhupada’s Palace at 4:30 am, then he’d drive his vehicle (an SUV-type vehicle) to the temple about a quarter mile down the road and attend the 5:00 am mangal aroti at the Temple of Understanding. If I was lucky I’d hitch a ride in the back of Bhaktipada’s vehicle, or else I’d walk down to the temple.
Once, while hanging out in Bhaktipada’s living room one evening, a television news crew came to his house to interview him. I observed from a distance, but I heard the conversation. At one point, the news reporter asked Bhaktipada why were we building elaborate temples for Krishna when some people in the local community were going hungry. Bhaktipada responded by telling the reporter that New Vrindaban’s Palace Charities food relief program was feeding 50,000 people a year in the Ohio Valley. I knew this was a blatant lie. The program had been disbanded two years earlier when Tapahpunja left for Cleveland.
Palace Charities
Tapahpunja dasa Brahmachari started Palace Charities in February 1983. It was a successful outreach program which generated positive publicity for New Vrindaban. On April 3, 1983, Palace Charities hosted an Easter Sunday dinner sponsored in cooperation with the Wheeling Housing Authority. But when Tapahpunja took sannyasa later that year, Bhaktipada sent him to Cleveland Ohio ISKCON, reportedly as “punishment” for his offenses.
Kumar (Scott Hebel) and Tapahpunja (Terry Sheldon) (c. February 1983).
Tapahpunja, inspired by his experiences with Palace Charities in the Ohio Valley, inaugurated a Palace Charities program in Cleveland which became so successful that he applied for, and received grant money from the U. S. Department of Housing and Urban Development through the City of Cleveland to fund the project. His program was featured in articles by the Cleveland Plain Dealer and The ISKCON World Review.
But the original New Vrindaban Palace Charities had been disbanded. When I heard Bhaktipada say that Palace Charities was feeding 50,000 people a year in the Ohio Valley, I decided that I must protect my “spiritual master” by resurrecting the program, so he couldn’t be called a liar. I acquired a used step van, convinced one of my artistically inclined godbrothers (Japa Ananda) to paint it white, with the words “Palace Charities Vegetarian Meals on Wheels” and a logo of the Palace dome painted on the side, and I got my godsister Mother Siri Prins and others to cook simple meals thrice a week at the Palace Restaurant for the program. Then I recruited some helpers, notably my godbrother Radha Govinda (Robert Seguin, now living in Montreal) to canvas for recipients (mostly in Wheeling), and then to drive the truck with meals cooked by Mother Siri and others to Wheeling to distribute the meals.
I also designed a three-panel brochure to distribute on the pick, and to show potential donors that Palace Charities was a legitimate and honorable charity. I made an identification card for Palace Charities Vegetarian Meals on Wheels and when I went out on the weekend pick, I collected for Palace Charities. I gave much of the money to New Vrindaban, but I kept back whatever I needed for Palace Charities. In May 1986, when Bhaktipada began serious talks about instituting a classical music program at New Vrindaban, I gave him $1,000 from Palace Charities money to purchase compact discs for his home stereo system; music by Bach, Handel, Palestrina and other great church music composers.
Front side of the Palace Charities brochure.
Back side of the Palace Charities brochure.
I managed and raised funds for Palace Charities as long as I lived at New Vrindaban, but when Bhaktipada sent me back out on the pick fulltime during the summer of 1986, I was unable to continue my service for Palace Charities, but the program continued. When Bhaktipada called me back to The Farm in October 1986, I resumed managing Palace Charities.
In November of 1986 I hosted a Thanksgiving Dinner for a large black tom turkey I had purchased from a local farmer and fed the turkey a vegetarian dinner at the Palace Restaurant. I dressed up in a white chef’s uniform with large chef’s hat. It was a publicity stunt for Palace Charities and newspaper reporters took photographs and television cameramen took films for the local newspapers and television news channels. As I recall, I had to tie the turkey’s feet to the chair with a cord to keep him from wandering off.
The author with Jiva the turkey. Photo from Brijabasi Spirit (January 1987).
The following year, I got an animal rescue organization, The Farm Sanctuary of Watkins Glen, New York—America’s first shelter for farmed animals; founded one year earlier in 1986—to donate to us eleven white turkeys which were rescued from a commercial turkey farm, and we hosted another Palace Restaurant publicity dinner for the turkeys on Thanksgiving Day 1987. After the event, we let the turkeys loose in one of the New Vrindaban cow pastures to let them forage on their own. After a few months, The Farm Sanctuary people came to take their turkeys back, because they said we weren’t taking adequate care for them, like we promised.
The author, dressed in a white chef’s hat and uniform, serves a dozen turkeys seated at tables at the Palace Restaurant. Photo from Brijabasi Spirit (December 4, 1987).
Soon after, I relinquished my duties for Palace Charities, as I was absorbed in my service of composing music for the temple liturgies, directing the choir and orchestra, etc. I heard Palace Charities disbanded a few years later. I wasn’t surprised. It seemed to me that it was never meant to help needy people; it was only meant to influence the general public’s opinion of New Vrindaban. Within a year or two, the New Vrindaban Sankirtan Department created another brochure for pickers and a new identification card: Appalachian Projects.
Front side of the Appalachian Projects brochure.
Back side of the Appalachian Projects brochure.
Books, Marriage, Music
In late February 1986, as co-director for Palace Publishing, I traveled to India for the 500th anniversary of Lord Chaitanya Mahaprabhu’s appearance (March 26) and shipped twenty-two cases of books (probably weighing a half-ton) from New York to Calcutta for free on an Air-India jetliner by asking Indian passengers in the ticket line if they would kindly check a case of Hare Krishna books for me on their ticket. (This was 25 years before the security measures were tightened after 9/11.) When the jet arrived in Calcutta I had to rent a pickup truck to get the books to Mayapur, where nearly all of them were sold.
When I returned to New Vrindaban in April, Bhaktipada had a surprise for me: a wife! He didn’t ask me to marry the particular girl he had in mind; he ordered me. [Endnote 83]
The author at New Vrindaban, about age 30 years. This photo must have been taken after my June 1986 marriage. I never wore fancy kurtas like that when I was a brahmachari.
When I refused, saying “She’s not my type,” [Endnote 84] he gleefully demoted me as co-director for Palace Publishing and sent me back on the road on traveling sankirtan. After a month, the daily grind of the “pick” got to me again and I begrudgingly surrendered, “Okay, Bhaktipada. I give up. I’ll marry her.” I was actually inspired to do this by my grand-guru Srila Prabhupada, whose father had arranged for him to marry a girl who did not appeal to him.
“But father,” Abhay protested, “I am more attracted by the beauty of another girl. Why must I marry this one?” His father philosophically replied, “If you marry a girl who is too beautiful, you will not be able to leave her later in life to take up spiritual practices.” [Endnote 85]
The marriage ceremony of Hrishikesh and Shyama dasi at the New Vrindaban temple (June 4, 1986).
However, after getting married on June 4, 1986, I still had to go back out on the “pick” full time! Bhaktipada got me married and had my sankirtan collections also.
After I got married and moved back to the farm, my Indian wife sometimes prepared wonderful Indian-style vegetarian dinners, but I still couldn’t put on the weight I had lost. Clearly something that my body needed was missing from the Krishna diet. Yet some of my godbrothers got fat from eating the same things. It was a mystery to me.
By this time (June 1986) there was already a hint of change in the air at New Vrindaban, radical changes which would eventually result in a complete restructuring of the fundamental temple worship services and the predominant dress and appearance of the community. Bhaktipada had begun his most controversial mission: the de-Indianization of Krishna consciousness.
Chant and be happy! New Vrindaban outdoor kirtan, ca. 1989.
Left to right: Truthful (Jay Whitehead), Mahati Mataji (Murti Swami’s former wife), Peaceful Swami (Dennis Moreau, with guitar), Dhananjaya (Darren Anton), Vishvamurti (William Stachowski), Dhruva (Dwayne Shaw, with recorder), Murti Swami (William Walsh), the author (with accordion), Bhaktirasa Swami (Brooke Brody), Bhakta Steve, Bhaktisiddhanta Swami (William Crockett), Sarvabhauma dasa from Pakistan, Dhirodatta (David Soliday, with guitar), True Peace (Thomas McGurrin), Madhava Ghosh (Mark Kjos Meberg)
In October of 1986, Bhaktipada once again called me back to the farm; this time to start a choir which would sing great classics by Bach, Handel, Mozart, etc. with Krishna-ized texts: lyrics which had been rewritten to express the philosophy and emotional sentiments of the Vaishnava’s unique perspective on God.
New Vrindaban’s Minister of Music from 1986 to 1993, Hrishikesh dasa (1988).
New Vrindaban “City of God” Temple Orchestra (January 1991).
Accordions: Bhakti-Joy, Dutiful Rama, Chakravarti Swami, Dhruva; Organ: Radha-Vrindaban Chandra Swami; Violins: Yamuna, Good Hope; Double bass: Herapanchami; Harps: Bhavisya, Brihan Naradiya Purana; Trumpets: Vishvatamukha, Sudhanu; Percussion: Harikirtan, Wonderful Love.
I loved my service as Director of Music at New Vrindaban, but I still had to go out on the pick from time to time. By this time, Dharmatma had left New Vrindaban, and others took over as Director of Sankirtan. My godbrother Herapanchami dasa (Helmut Goth) served in that capacity, as did Devamrita Swami. By this time, I did not go out with the big pickers, I went out with less-experienced collectors, as I just could not keep up with the big guns.
Devamrita Swami
Sometime around 1987, our Sankirtan Leader, Dharmatma, left New Vrindaban. The United States FBI, the West Virginia State Police, and the Marshall County Sheriff Department were coming down hard on New Vrindaban, for several alleged crimes, including illegally printing copyrighted logos on bumper stickers and hats for our sankirtan devotees to sell on the pick. Dharmatma, as leader of the entire New Vrindaban sankirtan department, was implicated in those crimes. He later served a year in prison. But he and his wives and family left New Vrindaban shortly after Dharmatma’s house was raided by FBI agents on January 5, 1987.
In time, Devamrita Swami (Lee Reynolds, aka Jay Matsya), a Prabhupada disciple who made a name for himself in ISKCON by preaching in the Soviet Union and other Eastern European countries under the direction of his sannyasa guru, Harikesh Swami, came to New Vrindaban in March or April 1986. He eventually took over as temple president and sankirtan leader after Kuladri and Dharmatma left. (Yes, Kuladri was a major player in the conspiracy to murder Sulochan dasa/Steven Bryant, but he escaped going to prison.) The pickers called Devamrita Swami “The General,” but the householders at New Vrindaban called him “The Great Manipulator.”
Devamrita Swami wearing his far out Far East outfit.
Once, on the weekend pick, I rode in the back seat of a vehicle to a New Vrindaban preaching center in Ohio. Cincinnati, I think. We left New Vrindaban around sunset. It was about a 4 hour drive. My godbrother Siksastaka dasa (Scott Manley) drove the car. Devamrita sat in the passenger seat. After a while I tried to lay down and sleep in the back seat, but Devamrita was playing jazz cassettes on the auto’s cassette player, Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane, Charles Mingus, etc. at FULL BLAST VOLUME! I found the volume painful in the back seat, as I needed to sleep. I got a splitting headache from lack of sleep and the intense volume of the music, but I didn’t say anything, as I understood that he was probably playing the music full blast to keep our driver from falling asleep at the wheel.
Bhaktipada meets the New Vrindaban traveling pickers on the road to inspire them to collect big (c. 1990 or so).
I do not appear in this photo, because (1) I could no longer do big at big events, and (2) I was absorbed in my service of making music at New Vrindaban. In this photo we see (top row): Damodar, Herapanchami (half face), Devamrita Swami (in red sweater), Sarvabhauma (in hoody), Eternal Love Swami (wearing eyeglasses), Surrender Swami, Compassionate Swami, Bhaktipada, Steady Swami, Chandrasekhar Swami, Joy Divine Swami. (Kneeling): Mukunda, Krishna Chaitanya, Peaceful Swami, Strong Faith, Bhaktisiddhanta Swami and Siksastaka. Damodar explained, “When Devamrita Swami was our sankirtan leader, sometimes he’d arrange for Bhaktipada to meet us before a big picking event. I don’t remember where or when this photo was taken. Perhaps in Indianapolis preceding the Indy 500.”
Note: Although my godbrother Sarvabhauma appears in this photo, we was not a picker. He served as Bhaktipada’s chauffeur, driving Bhaktipada’s Cadillac limousine.
Ambarish dasa, the head New Vrindaban cow herdsman.
For a month or two during the summer of 1987, I trained up a new godbrother from India, Kardama Muni dasa, on the pick. I believe he was studying at a college in the U. S. We worked shopping center parking lots in Maryland, as I recall.
During the 1987 Christmas Marathon, I worked with Ambarish dasa (Anthony Monge), one of New Vrindaban’s best-known and most-loved cowherd men. (In New Vrindaban publications, his name was spelled Amburish.) He was initiated in Denver in 1971, and served perhaps for a decade caring for Krishna’s cows as the premier New Vrindaban cow herdsman. At least since July 1974 Ambarish was head of the barn at Bahulaban and authored the weekly column “Cows” in the Brijabasi Spirit. When I knew Ambarish, he was married to another Prabhupada disciple, Pitambar devi dasi (Rita Quick), who took diksa in April 1977 at New Vrindaban.
Ambarish’s brother, Ganendra (Gerald Monge), also lived at New Vrindaban, and in the early 1980s served for a time as an actor with the Brijabasi Players theater troupe. Ambarish remembered the first time he met Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada:
The first time I saw Prabhupada was in [July] 1971 in Detroit. He lit up the whole room. We had a kirtan at the airport. Everyone went from New Vrindaban except a couple of devotees. We filled up two vehicles, a van and an old vehicle I brought with me. Bhagavan checked all the devotees’ kartals to find the best pair for Prabhupada to chant [with]. After the kirtan, Prabhupada sat down and asked, “Where is Kirtanananda Maharaja?” He was just sitting in the crowd. Prabhupada called him forward and had him sit right by the vyasasana. That night there were initiations. He initiated Suresvara, and Bhagavatananda took second [initiation].
In the early 1980s, the New Barn and Milking Parlor was constructed in Wilson Valley, and Ranaka dasa (Douglas Fintel) took over as manager of the barn. When I went out on the pick with Ambarish, he was living in a small row house on Chesterfield Road, near Montefiere Hospital in the Oakland neighborhood of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, as I recall. Sometimes Weekend Warriors from New Vrindaban stayed overnight in the living room. I slept there once or twice during my sankirtan travels.
In December 1987, Ambarish and I flew to San Francisco Bay, rented a car, and worked parking lots and shopping malls on the East Side of the bay. We stayed in an apartment in San Leandro—a city in Alameda County on the east side of the San Francisco Bay—with my godbrother Isvara dasa from Nigeria, who had rented the apartment as a base for his program of collecting for Africa.
As I had a set of lacrosse sticks and a ball, we played lacrosse on a nearby field in the mornings before going out on the pick. At the time, Bhaktipada was promoting the Native-American game, lacrosse. Ambarish was not a fired-up picker, but he was a pleasant traveling partner. We didn’t collect much money, but we collecting enough to make the trip profitable.
Ambarish dasa (Anthony Monge) at a New Vrindaban festival. Three chidren sit astride the cow, including Bhagavan (nicknamed “Buggie”), the son of Bhokta and Sukhavaha. Photo from Brijabasi Spirit (May 1984).
One event stands out in my mind about staying in Isvara’s apartment: the ants! One morning, we noticed a superhighway of tiny ants traveling through our apartment. At least a four-lane highway! They appeared from an air vent in the living room floor, and they traveled through the carpet, to the linoleum tile in the kitchen, up the sink cabinet, and they disappeared down into the sink. We didn’t bother them, and they didn’t bother us. I assumed they were moving their colony to a better location. After a few days, they disappeared, and we never saw them again.
I spent a lot of time during that marathon in a recording studio in the hills near Oakland, California, recording a prototype cassette of the music which our choir sang at New Vrindaban. I hired four singers: a soprano, alto, tenor and bass, and played the studio’s electronic keyboard for the accompaniment. I guess I spent four hours daily in the studio, and four hours daily on the pick. Our New Vrindaban choir recorded the same album during the summer of 1988. Ambarish passed away on November 11, 1989. I heard he committed suicide. He must have been depressed for a good while. I contacted Ambarish’s son, hoping he could give me some more biographical information about his father, such as his father’s birthday, but he didn’t know.
One of my New Vrindaban friends, who as a boy grew up at the commune, saw Ambarish just a few months before his death, when he, along with three other teenage friends, spent the night at Ambarish’s house after a Grateful Dead concert. As noted in the newspapers, the Grateful Dead played a memorable two-night show at the Pittsburgh Civic Arena on April 2nd and 3rd. These shows became famous for stellar musical highlights—like a “ripping”Blow Away opener on night two—and for a massive parking lot riot on the final night which led to hundreds of arrests and the band being temporarily banned by the city. My friend, JD (who wishes to remain anonymous), recalled:
Three of my gurukula buddies (Samba, Jayananda and Namacharya) and I went to the Grateful Dead concert in Pittsburgh Civic Arena. It was a great concert and we got stoned out of our minds on acid, so much so that we couldn’t find our car in the parking lot! We called Ambarish from a pay phone and asked him to pick us up in his car, which he did. It was only a mile or two drive. We spent the night at his house, and we took some more acid. Ambarish wanted some, so we all got high together. He told us that was the first time he had ever taken LSD. We were surprised. We thought ALL Hare Krishna devotees were acid heads before they joined the movement. I was shocked to hear that he took his life just a few months later.
Cover of the 1988 Krishna Chorale cassette.
Isvara dasa
My godbrother Isvara was born Ishmael Adebisi on October 12, 1959 in Iwo, a city in Osun State, Nigeria. He grew up in Lagos—one of the largest cities in Africa—a port city on the Gulf of Guinea which was the capital city of Nigeria at the time. Lagos is about a hundred miles southwest from Iwo. When I was out on the pick with Isvara, he told me his father had three wives, and each wife had her own house. Isvara explained:
Yes, my father was a polygamist, just like most African men. I also like the idea, but I don’t have patience for it. I have a very interesting family. My father was a traditional African, with royal heritage, and he subscribed to the traditional African religion. My last name is Adebisi, which indicates someone of royal lineage in Nigeria. My father worked as a trader.
The Yorùbá religion, based in southwest Nigeria, is the largest indigenous African religion/belief system in the world with several million adherents worldwide. African religions involve ancestor worship, and worship of a creator deity along with a pantheon of divine spirits. The use of magic and traditional medicine are prevalent. Most African religions can be described as animistic with various polytheistic and pantheistic aspects. Isvara continued speaking about his family:
My mother had a Muslim heritage from her background, though she herself never practiced the religion. As both my father and mother were traditionally African, they never cared for imported religions into Nigeria.
But myself, I imbibed religion from my childhood due to the influence from my mother’s relatives. I was quite religious in all my growing up, but not a fanatic. I was Muslim because that was my exposure. I also have some Christian relatives as my father’s cousins were Jehovah’s Witnesses. In Nigeria it is common to have family members of different religions, and we were all comfortable with that.
In my late teens, I started reading books about spirituality, and was instantly attracted to ISKCON when they came to Nigeria in 1977, after Brahmananda sent two preachers to Lagos. I became a full time devotee and lived in the ashram. I was one of the first ISKCON pioneers in Nigeria. I have many brothers and sisters from my father’s three families, but I lost contact with them after joining ISKCON. They thought I was a lost person joining an Indian religious cult. My family branded me mad, and one of my uncles refused to ever speak with me.
Devotees of ISKCON Lagos (1979). Bhakta Ishmael (Isvara dasa) is at far right with mrdanga drum.
Others in the photo include: Mukunda dasa and his former wife Vraja Lila dasi, Brahmananda Swami (the only white person in the photo, holding his sannyasa danda), Shanta Maharaja, Ajay Krishna Prabhu, Bhutabhavan Prabhu, Gopal Das, and many who left before initiation. Isvara explained, “Bhutabhavan Prabhu was a black Prabhupada disciple, who joined ISKCON in 1970 from Detroit. He was one of few devotees who went with Prabhupada to East Africa in the early 1970s. Prabhupada specifically instructed him to preach in Africa, as he was a black American. He was practically my Bhakta leader when I joined in the late 70s in Lagos. He passed away around 2024 in Alachua.”
Early in the 1980s, Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada accepted the position as the official ISKCON zonal acharya for Central Africa. In 1981, sixteen Nigerian devotees—two Prabhupada disciples and fourteen new Bhaktas—wrote homages which were published in Bhaktipada’s 1981 Vyasa Puja book. Bhakta Ishmael wrote a well-written and heartfelt homage:
My dear Srila Bhaktipada,
Please accept my insignificant obeisances at your lotus feet. I am the lowest among mankind, thinking I can enjoy this material world to its fullest extent. Under illusion, I am struggling from one life to another. However, Your Divine Grace always has compassion upon the fallen conditioned souls.
Krishna is so merciful that He sent His bona fide representatives to the material world to liberate the conditioned living entities from material existence and thus bring them back home, back to Godhead.
You are the topmost paramahansa. By taking shelter under your lotus feet and rendering service unto you, I will be able to receive the mercy of Krishna. Without your benediction I am doomed.
Srila Bhaktipada, though I am the most sinful person, please let me have a chance to render service unto you, life after life, rather than render service unto my stupid mind and senses.
Your worthless eternal servant,
Bhakta Ishmael
Isvara explained:
Although I joined the temple in 1977, I waited for more than three years to receive first initiation, since no ISKCON guru wanted to come to Nigeria. Finally Brahmananda and Bhakti Tirtha Swamis convinced Bhaktipada to come. I received diksa on February 21, 1982 in Lagos from Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada during his first visit to West Africa. He was on his way to Mayapur, India, to attend the GBC meetings. Bhaktipada initiated a few hundred disciples in Lagos in the 1980s. He was the sole ISKCON zonal guru until 1985 when the GBC approved Bhakti Tirtha Swami Srila Krishnapada as an official ISKCON initiating guru, and he began initiating his own disciples.
Actually we African devotees often face biases in ISKCON. Even my second initiation took more than three years, whereas the standard Srila Prabhupada set was that after six months of joining, you take first initiation, and after another six months, you take second initiation. But for us African devotees, it was never like the rest of the world.
After becoming the guru for Central Africa, Bhaktipada visited the world’s second-largest and second-most populous continent about once a year through the mid-1980s. Bhaktipada’s summer 1982 visit to Nigeria and Ghana was featured in Back To Godhead magazine; “In Lagos, Nigeria, a police escort was waiting to take Kirtanananda Swami from the airport to the temple, where he initiated the chief of police and gave him the name Arjuna dasa. To news reporters Kirtanananda Swami said, ‘It is crucial for Nigeria to take up Krishna consciousness before the Western materialism influence becomes too prominent.’” [Endnote 86]
Banner announcing Srila Bhaktipada’s arrival in Ghana, Africa (undated).
According to the 1983 GBC meeting resolutions, in February/March 1983 Bhaktipada was given charge of Central Africa along with Bhakti Tirtha Swami, Brahmananda Swami and Bhagavan Goswami. [Endnote 87] Isvara continued:
When I joined ISKCON, I wasn’t a passive, sit-down type devotee. I was full of energy and very active in book distribution. I was pioneering the Hare Krishna movement in many African countries, not just Nigeria. I made things happen; nothing was ever given to me. When it was time for me to go to the USA at the request of Brahmananda Swami, it took me just one day to collect sufficient Laksmi to pay for my air ticket. I first came to New Vrindaban from Africa in 1983.
The New Vrindaban temple authorities sent me out on the pick. It was difficult for me in the beginning, collecting in America, but I quickly got used to it. At that time my godbrother Hrishikesh was the “Commanding General” of the pickers, so myself and many others followed his lead. There were many events Hrishikesh and I worked together, such as the Indy 500, on several occasions. After I learned how to do the pick, I was sent on fundraising for African projects.
A few other African devotees also came to the United States around the time I came, but they never stayed for very long because they couldn’t tolerate the prejudices of a few of the American devotees towards the black-bodied devotees. The African devotees were labeled as thieves, even though they never stole anything. It was always quite insulting and annoying.
I was the only one who stayed in America, due to my boldness and tolerance; the others couldn’t tolerate the constant raciscm. The white devotees got their prejudices from statements in our books that portray black-bodied people in many unpalatable ways. The famous one being that of King Bāhuka, the son of King Vena. But Bāhuka, coming from the body of King Vena, was sent to the forest in India. He had nothing to do with the forests of Africa.
Isvara is correct in his interpretation. According to Srimad-bhagavatam, after the sages assassinated the tyrannical King Vena, they churned the thighs of the king’s corpse to draw out his sinful traits. From the churning, a strange, dwarf creature emerged, with complexion as black as a crow, short limbs, large jaw, flat nose and red eyes. This was Bāhuka. When he was born, he bowed down in fear and asked the sages what he should do. The sages replied, “Nisida” (which means “Please sit down”). Bāhuka became the ancestor and progenitor of the Nishada race—a tribal community of hunters, fishermen and forest dwellers who lived in the Vindhya Mountain Range of ancient West-Central India.
In the Mahabharata, the Nishadas are described as hunters, fishermen, mountaineers or raiders that have the hills and the forests as their abode. In the epic Ramayana, a king named Guha of the Nishada clan assists Rama during his period of exile.
When Bāhuka was born, he bowed down in fear and asked the sages what he should do. AI generated image.
Isvara continued:
Despite the unrelenting raciscm from a few of the white American devotees, one of the best times I remember most about my life in America was the Christmas marathon of 1987, when I rented an apartment in San Leandro, California. Hrishikesh and Ambarish came and joined me and stayed in the apartment for the entire month of December to do the pick.
At that time, Hrishikesh was semi-retired from the pick, as he was focused mostly on the New Vrindaban chorus, and while here in California he recorded the album Blessed Assurance, which was very appreciated by everyone. I never encountered any racist attitudes from Hrishikesh, just only from a few other devotees, but I mostly learned to overlook and ignore it.
Isvara was a good picking partner, he had a pleasant personality and he was devoted to Bhaktipada. Isvara noted, “I rented the apartment in San Leandro and stayed there for almost a year. I had become disenchanted with ISKCON at that time. After the marathon of December 1987, I decided to live on my own, but my independent life was short lived.” In 1988, Isvara gradually began to lose his devotion to his spiritual master. He said:
I wasn’t much into Bhaktipada’s reform of those robes and English songs, though I thought it wasn’t bad. It’s just that I like traditions. I didn’t reject Bhaktipada until 1993 or 1994, after the Revelation Incident [the Winnebago Incident, when Bhaktipada’s driver observed his “spiritual master” in the bed in the back of his Winnebago mobile home with a seventeen-year-old male Malaysian disciple].
But while in California, I became attracted to the teachings of Prabhupada’s godbrother B. R. Srila Sridhara Maharaja, so I was mostly friendly with those devotees who were following Srila Sridhara Maharaja’s teachings. But I never left ISKCON; I’m still in ISKCON today. It’s just that I think a little differently.
In California in 1994, Isvara met Gour Govinda Swami (1929-1996), whom many regard as the most holy of all of Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada’s disciples. In 1995, Gour Govinda Swami convinced Isvara to visit India. Once Isvara experienced the magic of Bharata Varsha, he never left. Today he lives in Vrindaban, although he spent several years also in Mumbai and West Bengal. In 1996 Isvara married an Indian woman. He has two children with her, and another offspring from a woman he knew in California (c. 1989-1990).
Today, my godbrother Isvara is a respected devotee in ISKCON and sometimes delivers the Srimad-bhagavatam lecture during the early morning service at ISKCON Vrindaban and at other temples throughout India. Isvara also has a Facebook page where he currently posts daily photographs of the Krishna Balaram deities at Krishna Balaram Mandir.
Isvara dasa at Krishna Balaram Mandir, Vrindaban, India (November 2023).
After the December 1987 Christmas Marathon in California with Isvara and Ambarish, I lost my mojo as a picker, and New Vrindaban administration sent me out to Washington D. C. on Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day selling roses on sidewalk tables. My godbrother Janmastami dasa (John Sinkowski) established that business which brought in probably hundreds of thousands of dollars to New Vrindaban. On Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day, a flower vendor in a good location could sell $5,000 worth of roses.
Eventually I stopped picking for the community entirely, although my Indian wife still went out almost every weekend, collecting for the community. She kept out some money for our household, as we had a daughter in 1988 and a son in 1992. Our rent was $175 per month. I took care of the children during the weekends when she went out picking.
Snoopy’s revenge.
On June 24, 1987, attorneys for 26 major league baseball teams and United Features Syndicate, which represents “Peanuts” cartoon creator Charles Schulz, filed a suit against the New Vrindaban community for illegally using their trademarks in a multi-million-dollar nationwide panhandling operation. United Features requested $50,000 in damages for each violation. The 26 baseball teams requested a total of $27 million in damages. The two suits charged that the community infringed upon their copyrights by distributing caps, buttons and other souvenirs emblazoned with their logos in return for donations. [Endnote 88] Named as defendants were sankirtan leader Dennis Gorrick (Dharmatma) and Bhaktipada.
Bhaktipada retorted, “Isn’t it strange that the government is spending so much time and money to defend Snoopy? I can’t imagine this happening if we were a Catholic or Presbyterian church. Our lawyers said we have committed no violations. If you don’t sell, if you give out the material in the process of collecting donations, there is no violation.” [Endnote 89]
Bhaktipada claimed that prosecutors had threatened to shut the community down and turn Prabhupada’s Palace into a casino, despite the fact that Prabhupada’s Palace was not one of the properties eligible for forfeiture. The Palace was built before New Vrindaban began making money from the copyright scam. But most Brijabasis did not know this. We just accepted Bhaktipada’s wild and exaggerated claims at face value. One reporter from a Wheeling newspaper wrote, “This could financially break them.” Bhaktipada replied, “I don’t think they can do anything to us. You sue a beggar and you catch a louse. We’re beggars.” [Endnote 90]
Pickers sent to the Far East
After all the negative repercussions from the copyright infringement case, sankirtan Laksmi collectors were sent overseas to the Far East, where, dressed in Buddhist robes, they could do or say pretty well any damn thing they pleased to collect money without worrying about implicating New Vrindaban in more legal problems. The picking was lucrative in Malaysia, Singapore, South Korea, Hong Kong and Taiwan. Bhaktipada’s disciple Chandra dasa (Choy Weng Hong), a devotee of Chinese ancestry initiated by Bhaktipada in Toronto in 1979 who “set up” Bhaktipada’s early-1990s Far Eastern picking empire, noted in a 1989 letter to Bhaktipada, “The economy in Malaysia is undergoing what they call a double recession but we do fairly well in Singapore, daily between Singapore $500 to $1,000. The exchange rate is U. S. $1 to Singapore $1.95. In Malaysia we manage a daily collect of $300 to $700 and the rate of exchange is only U. S. $1 = Malaysia $2.75.” [Endnote 91]
Chandra claimed the collections from the Far Eastern pickers could have totaled $5,000,000. “By my estimation,” he said in a telephone conversation with me, “we collected about five million dollars for Bhaktipada between 1990 and 1993. The currency was delivered weekly in trunks as large as filing cabinets to shady underworld characters in Taiwan, where by a complicated secret process which avoided government regulations, the cash was converted into U. S. dollars and transferred to New Vrindaban’s ‘ISKCON Discretionary Account’ in a Wheeling bank controlled by Bhaktipada. RVC Swami (Ronald Nay) and Rupanuga dasa (Ramesh Patel) were the two authorized signers on that account.” [Endnote 92]
Two Far East pickers: Chandra (Chow Weng Hong) and Krishna-Chaitanya, a disciple of Varshan Swami.
Four Far East pickers: Krishna-Chaitanya, Krishna Balaram Swami (Kreon Valentine, later known as Joseph Bonomo), Supreme Truth Swami (Talavana), and Maheshvara (Manuel Roberto).
Not all the money sent to Bhaktipada by the New Vrindaban Far East Laksmi collectors was deposited in the bank. An undisclosed amount of gold (coins or bullion) had been buried in a a trunk at a secret location somewhere in the Bahulaban environs, apparently so that the federal government could not seize it. A few days after the Winnebago incident of September 6, 1993, three New Vrindaban devotees (Sudhanu, Adwaita and Kumar) dug up the buried trunk of gold with a back hoe, and explained to passersby, “There’s a break in the water line!” The trunk was secretly kept overnight in Kumar’s apartment above the bakery in Wilson Valley, and the next day it was brought to New York City, where the precious metals were sold for a considerable amount of cash.
Sita Love (Shannon Thompson), who was married to Kumar and played cello in the temple orchestra, explained, “My husband did a good job of protecting me; of keeping me in ignorance about all the stuff that was going on at New Vrindaban. But he could not keep me in ignorance when he brought that trunk of gold into our apartment. I was never so scared in my life! I was afraid a fanatical Bhaktipada disciple might break in while we were sleeping and kill us.”—Conversation with the author (May 25, 2003).
Where did the money go? Did the three men give the money to Bhaktipada to help pay for Bhaktipada’s attorneys’ fees? Did they use the money to pay New Vrindaban’s bills, as at this time the community didn’t even have enough funds to pay for feed for the cows? Or did the three keep the money for their own personal use? Sudhanu and his wife and family at this time lived in the old Sankirtan House on McCreary Ridge Road. Some time later, while driving past Sudhanu’s house, I noticed he had acquired a sailboat, perhaps twenty-five feet in length, which was parked in his driveway.
As noted earlier, my son and and Kumar and Sita’s son were about the same age, and sometimes played together in my backyard on Holly Hill Drive in North Fayette Township, Pennsylvania. Once when I took the boy back to Kumar’s Pittsburgh apartment after playing at my house, I asked Kumar about the buried gold, which he and Sudhanu and Adwaita had recovered years earlier, but he refused to talk about it. That was the last time I spoke with him (c. 2003).
Digging up treasure at Bahulaban.
I teach Bombay devotees how to do the pick.
In February 1988, my wife and I traveled to Bombay to visit her family. Coincidentally (or was it planned? I don’t remember), Bhaktipada was also visiting India at the same time. During this trip, I accompanied Bhaktipada on a journey to visit his new temple in Rishikesh, New Madhuban, established and managed by my godbrother Bhakti Yoga Swami. My wife remained in Bombay.
While in Bombay, at my suggestion and Bhaktipada’s encouragement, I designed a bumper sticker: [I 💖 Bombay] and contracted a local printer to print several hundred stickers. I gave a class in the Chowpatty temple about sticker sankirtan and took out several of the brahmacharis to Victoria Terminus, one of the busiest and most famous railway stations in India, completed in 1887. I demonstrated how to do the Citation Line. I stopped people in the terminal and cited them for smiling without a permit, and other “charges.” Almost everyone spoke excellent English. I was surprised how easy it was to get Indians to give a few rupees for a bumper sticker.
Bhaktipada encouraged his Indian disciples to go out on sticker sankirtan. During a lecture given at the Sri Sri Radha Gopinath Mandir, Chowpatty, Bombay (February 24, 1988), Bhaktipada preached:
[The Pick] is the greatest way to engage people in Krishna’s service. . . . There’s no better way . . . than taking little donations from many people. I’d rather have a million donations of one rupee than one donation of a million rupees. Why? Because if they give only one rupee to Krishna, their spiritual life has begun! Because they’ve engaged in Krishna’s service. . . . So don’t think this isn’t preaching; this is the biggest preaching! . . .
And it will get nicer and nicer and easier and easier the more you do it. Don’t think that after a few days people will get tired of it. I used to think that in the United States. Actually, people get trained up to give; when they see you coming they will reach into their pockets and pull out a rupee—without your even asking! . . . There’s no other service higher than this service! This is the highest service! [Endnote 93]
However, the pick never caught on in India like it did in the United States. Eventually, the program was discontinued. On Bhaktipada’s recommendation, the Bombay devotees also began wearing robes instead of dhotis, kurtas and saris, but that program was also discontinued.
By 1988, many devotees in India wore Franciscan-style robes instead of dhotis, kurtas and saris. Photo from Bhaktipada’s Vyasa Puja book (September 5, 1988).
Standing, left to right: Chaitanya Charitamrita dasa from Bolivia, Janeshwar dasa (now Muktananda Swami), Bhakti Yoga Swami (with danda), Sukhdev Swami/Dr. Srinivas Acharya (with danda), Gyaneshwar PK from Pakistan, Bhakti Siddhanta Swami/Sadhana Siddha dasa (with danda), Dr. Radha Krishna and his wife Palika Mataji.
Kneeling or seated: Rishabdev/Raju Bajaj, Bhaktipada, Unknown.
Children: Narahari (daughter of Radha Krishna and Palika), and Niraj and Karishma (son and daughter of Rishabdev).
Accordions at New Vrindaban.
As noted earlier, I began accordion lessons at the age of seven in 1963. I got pretty good, and got my first paying gig when I was 12 years old. I played for a birthday party in Menlo Park, New Jersey and made $20 for an hour’s work. When I was a freshman in high school a few years later, my accordion teacher told me there was nothing more he could teach me.
When I joined the New Vrindaban Community, I donated all my possessions, including my accordion to the community. It belonged to Krishna now. My possessions were stored in a garage at the Pittsburgh ISKCON temple. In 1983 my accordion was returned to me, and I played it now and then during kirtans. It sounded something like the Indian harmonium (they are both free-reed instruments), and the player could play it while standing or walking, unlike the Indian harmonium.
The author plays accordion and leads the singing of the Damodarastakam prayers while a visiting Indian devotee plays a clay mrdanga at New Vrindaban (c. Kartik 1986).
As a rule, traditional Bengali-style kirtan was never prohibited, and was in fact prominently featured during Vaishnava festivals such as Janmastami when hundreds of Indian Hindu visitors packed the temple. Here Hrishikesh leads kirtan from the Indian harmonium while Rupanuga plays mrdanga at the RVC temple (c. 1988). Umapati Swami (with danda) sits on the floor at the far right.
On September 27, 1987, Bhaktipada suggested that New Vrindaban should have an accordion ensemble. In late 1988, after the morning, noon and evening services had been standardized with English lyrics and Western music, Bhaktipada asked me to play my accordion at the evening services at his house. A few godbrothers, such as Dhruva and Dutiful Rama, asked me to teach them how to play. I also taught a few gurukula boys, such as Sankirtan and Ruci’s son Sanat Kumar and Yogini’s eldest son Krishna Chandra.
I visited accordion dealers in New York City and Haddon Township, New Jersey. I purchased about a dozen 12-bass accordions from Stanley Darrow at Acme Accordion School. The City of God Accordion Ensemble was born. On November 17, 1989, the City of God Accordion Ensemble and the City of God Children’s Choir performed at the Wheeling City of Lights parade. This was our first public performance.
The first performance of the City of God Accordion Ensemble, at the Wheeling City of Lights Parade (November 17, 1989). The accordionists and bass drum player led, followed by a Jeep pulling a float with the Swan Boat. The temperature was cold and it began drizzling. Our fingers grew cold and stiff and we could barely move our fingers on the keys, but we plodded on to the end of the parade route.
In 1990, after Bhaktipada began promoting accordions at New Vrindaban, I purchased a beautiful, second-hand concert accordion from Antonio Nelli Peruch, a professional classical accordionist in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. The instrument cost $3,000. My wife paid for it by collecting on the road. I didn’t mind in the least that I was no longer able to do the pick. My service as Director of Music at New Vrindaban was satisfying and enjoyable.
Publicity photo with my Victoria Italian-built accordion (1990)
On August 28, 1990, I performed a solo accordion recital at the fifth Music at the Palace recital. I was assisted by pianist Thomas Soplinski, an undergraduate organ major at West Liberty State College, and the City of God Accordion Ensemble. My program consisted of:
Johannes Brahms: Hungarian Dance No. 5
Johann Sebastian Bach: Four Keyboard Works
George Friedrich Handel: Suite for a Musical Clock
Vittorio Monti: Czardas
Eugene Ettore: Concertino—Accordion Miniatures
Alan Hovhaness: Suite for Accordion
Pietro Deiro: Grand Etude de Concert, No. 3 Fiume Po
Walter Girnatis: Musiquettes, Six Pieces for Harmonica and Piano
J. S. Bach: Orchestral Suite No. 3 in D, with the City of God Accordion Ensemble
To listen to some of the pieces I played during my recital at Prabhupada’s Palace, go to YouTube.
The City of God Accordion Quintet in Prabhupada’s Palace: Bhavisya, Dutiful Rama, Thakur, Hrishikesh and Dhruva (c. 1990).
I sent press releases announcing my August 28th recital to the Wheeling News Register and the Moundsville Daily Echo, as I had done for all the previous Music At The Palace recitals. A handful, actually less than a handful of local Wheeling and Moundsville music lovers attended our recitals.
Mike Westbury hires me to play accordion.
One person who attended my accordion recital at the Palace was 69-year-old Mike A. Westbury of Wheeling. Mike was born May 13, 1921. If I remember correctly, he grew up in Long Island, New York, and as a youngster showed remarkable talent in music. His main instruments were saxophone, clarinet and flute, but he told me he had played all the instruments of the orchestra professionally at one time or other. He was in demand as a musician in New York City and played with many big bands. He also played in the pit orchestra for the Tonight Show, hosted by Johnny Carson and others. This was broadcast live from the NBC Studios in Rockefeller Center.
Mike explained to me that the musicians sat in the orchestra pit patiently waiting for their music to arrive. About a minute before the scheduled downbeat, the music copyist would arrive in the pit and start throwing music on to the music stands. The ink was still wet on the pages. The musicians had only a few seconds to examine the pages, look for key changes and repeat signs, before the conductor gave the preparatory beat before the downbeat. If a musician played a wrong note, they were fired. Only the best musicians could stand that level of stress, and Mike was one of them.
Mike told me he once performed with the great vaudeville accordionist Pietro Frosini late in the 1930s or early in the 1940s. Mike was a young man, perhaps still a teenager, and had accepted a gig playing clarinet with an accordionist. When Mike arrived at the venue, the accordionist was sitting on a stool on stage and warming up. His accordion was not even strapped to his body; it merely sat on his knee, a good distance from his body. Frosini was warming up by playing the Allegro molto appassionato movement of the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto with such accuracy, brilliance and passion that Mike was taken aback by his virtuosity.
Pietro Frosini (1885-1951), born Pietro Giuffrida, was an Italian vaudevillian accordionist, composer, and arranger who became one of the first accordion stars in the United States. A pioneer of the chromatic button accordion, he toured internationally, recorded for Edison and Victor, and composed over 200 works for the instrument. After vaudeville’s decline, he served as a staff accordionist at WOR radio in New York City until his death in 1951.
Mike told me he made a lot of money in the music business, so much that he purchased a restaurant for about $1,000,000 in Fort Lee, New Jersey, right across the Hudson River near the George Washington Bridge. Unfortunately, when a Mafia representative reminded him that he must contribute a portion of his restaurant’s earnings to the underworld organization in return for their “protection,” Mike refused. His restaurant burned to the ground a few weeks later, and Mike lost his entire investment.
When Mike retired from show biz in the 1980s, he and his wife Jerri moved to Wheeling, West Virginia. Although Mike had officially retired, he still worked from time to time as a musician, music teacher and band director. He directed the string orchestra which played Strauss waltzes at the annual December Festival of Lights concert at the Glessner Auditorium at Oglebay Park. At this event, he hired me to play piano with the strings.
Mike also directed a quartet of musicians which performed swing and big band music at wedding receptions in Ohio and West Virginia. From 1990 to 1994 he hired me to play accordion, with double bassist Edward Parshall and drummer Ronald Rose. Mike played saxophone, clarinet and flute. Ron served as band director at Marshall County High School for decades until he retired around 1993.
I hired Mike and his quartet to provide music for my wedding reception at South Fayette Township Fire Hall on June 23, 2001. Mary Kay Welter and I were married a couple hours earlier at St. Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church in Oakdale, Pennsylvania. During dinner, Mike strolled from table to table playing violin, and later led his quartet in dance music. I joined them with my accordion for a polka. Unfortunately, Mary Kay and I were divorced nine years later.
80-year-old Mike Westbury entertains my parents during dinner (June 23, 2001).
At my wedding reception I joined Mike and his quartet to play a polka (June 23, 2001).
When Mike’s 83-year-old wife Jerri passed away on March 23, 2005, he was devastated. He sold his house at 70 Hubbard Lane and moved into an apartment at 1208 Warwood Avenue in Wheeling. He began going blind. This was extremely difficult for him. By this time, I had lived in Pittsburgh for a decade, but I visited him sometimes when I came to West Virginia to see my friends during the New Vrindaban festivals. Mike used to tell me, “Old age ain’t for sissies.” He passed away on December 29, 2014 at the age of 93. Both Mike and his wife Jerri (1921-2005) were buried at Mount Calvary Cemetery in Wheeling.
When I rejected Bhaktipada as my spiritual master after the September 1993 Winnebago Incident, I still lived at New Vrindaban with my wife and children, at least until May 1994 when I moved permanently to Pittsburgh. During the summer of 1993 I had recorded my first compact disc, A Classical Christmas, featuring myself as accordion soloist with members of the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. The album cost a lot more to record and produce than I expected: I think close to $50,000, which was a huge sum of money for me. I borrowed a large sum from Mike Westbury but paid him back with interest a month later.
From November 1993 to January 1994, I went back out on the pick, selling my CDs in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. The best spot was at the corner of Walnut Street and Maryland Avenue in an upscale shopping/restaurant district in the Pittsburgh Shadyside neighborhood. I’d give passersby a citation, put a CD in their hands, show them my picture on the cover, and ask for $20 to help homeless people. I didn’t feel dishonest, because at the time, I was living on the sofa in the North side apartment of my friends George Exoo (a Unitarian minister), and my godbrother Thomas McGurrin (True Peace), both who used to live at New Vrindaban. So I was, in a sense, homeless.
CD booklet cover, with violinist Huei-Sheng Kao, harpist Gretchen Van Hoesen, and the author, from original 1993 Soli Deo Gloria release. Photo by Kumar dasa (Craig M. Thompson).
Nonetheless, I gave a donation of four hundred dollars (yes, a paltry sum) to the East End Cooperative Ministry of Pittsburgh, as they did relief work for the homeless. That year (1994) I sold 1,466 CDs, 82 cassettes, and collected $34,009 in tax-free cash dollars. This helped pay the rent for my wife and children’s house at New Vrindaban, and my own studio apartment in Pittsburgh. After a couple years, when I began getting regular work as a church organist and free-lance accordionist, I stopped doing the pick entirely. I don’t miss it in the least. I’m glad that part of my life is over.
I ruin my teeth.
When I was out on the pick in California, perhaps in 1982 or 1983, I got a nasty toothache and went to see a dentist. He said I needed a root canal and it would cost something like $1,000. I didn’t want to spend Krishna’s money on myself. We were taught to be renounced and austere. Prabhupada said we could collect millions of dollars but we shouldn’t spend a penny on ourselves. And my own spiritual master had terrible teeth. Whenever he smiled we saw gaps here and there. In addition, Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada hated going to see a doctor or go into a hospital. After his stroke on Memorial Day in 1967, he complained about the doctors, “They are simply sticking needles.”
So I asked the dentist, “How much to pull the tooth?” He said it would be $50. So I saved Krishna $950 dollars and I lost a tooth. It wasn’t a big deal. We knew that Prabhupada was suspicious of doctors and scientists and hospitals, so we avoided them except during the most dire emergencies.
When I left New Vrindaban twelve years later and moved to Pittsburgh Pennsylvania in May 1994, I got another toothache. To save money, I went to the University of Pittsburgh School of Dental Medicine for an examination, because it was cheaper than going to a licensed, practicing dentist. An attractive, blonde graduate student in her mid-twenties examined my mouth. She was surprised. She said my teeth had deep erosions on the enamel, like a recently-plowed field, and she needed to consult with her professor.
She called for her professor, who examined my teeth. Enamel erosion is often caused by acid exposure, such as acidic food and drinks or frequent vomiting. The dental professor asked me, “Do you suck on lemons all day? Do you chew nuts in the shells?” I answered in the negative. The professor called in his fellow professors to look inside my mouth. None of them could figure out why the surfaces of my teeth had become so eroded.
Finally, a professor from India came into my cubicle and looked into my mouth. He exclaimed, with a strong Indian accent, “I have seen this before! In the rural villages of India. The villagers make their own toothpaste, and one of the ingredients is chalk powder. If you use it long enough, it damages the enamel and causes huge erosions in the surface of the teeth.”
I told him, “Yes, for 16 years I have used a homemade toothpaste made with chalk powder, based on an Indian recipe.” At New Vrindaban, we called it “Prabhupada toothpaste,” because Prabhupada gave us the recipe. It’s made from ground mustard seed, salt, calcium carbonate (chalk powder), camphor, menthol and essential oils like wintergreen, eucalyptus and thyme. The Indian doctor told me, “You should stop using this homemade toothpaste immediately, it is destroying your teeth.”
They said they could repair my teeth for $30,000. I nearly fainted. At the time, I didn’t make that much in an entire year. Instead of getting my teeth repaired properly, I went to another dentist who applied cheap temporary fixes, which usually fell off after a few years. For the next twenty-five years, I was very careful to smile without opening my lips, so people couldn’t see the terrible appearance of my teeth. They were functional, yes, but cosmetically they were a mess.
My dentist also informed me that some of my teeth were beginning to migrate to places they’re not supposed to go, because of the gap in my mouth created twelve years earlier when I had my tooth pulled out on the pick. So I had to get an entire bridge made and installed, for twice the price the dentist quoted me for my root canal twelve years earlier, and I had to pay with my own money. It seems if you don’t get something fixed properly right away, then you wind up spending twice as much later to fix it.
Finally, in 2021 at the age of 65, I decided to get my teeth fixed. It cost me some thousands of dollars for six porcelain-ceramic crowns fused to high-noble metal (like gold, platinum or palladium) substructure, but by that time I had money to spare, and so I got the procedures done. It took six months to get all of my teeth fixed, but now I can smile again and I’m not embarrassed to let people see my teeth.
Is there a lesson here? Perhaps it may be that Prabhupada toothpaste, like the Krishna lacto-vegetarian diet—not to mention the subordination of women, child marriage, etc.—doesn’t work for everyone. We must use our intelligence to examine the evidence before blindly accepting a belief as fact. And we should visit the dentist and doctor regularly. Don’t be a fanatic and believe everything you are told, just because it is a time-honored tradition from an ancient Bronze-Age culture.
“Now I can smile again!” The author, one year after the completion of his teeth repairs (August 5, 2022).
Conclusion.
Do I regret my years on the pick? Do I regret my years with the Hare Krishnas? Yes, and no. For a while, after I discovered that New Vrindaban may have been more a criminal enterprise than a spiritual community, I regretted my involvement with the community and my alleged “spiritual master.” However, after my first Hare Krishna history book, Killing For Krishna, was published in 2018, I received many email messages from former ISKCON members who had been traumatized by their time in ISKCON. They wrote to me to express their appreciation for my book (later to become a 12-volume series) because it helped them to heal and process their emotional trauma.
Since then, I have not regretted my sixteen years with the Krishnas. Sometimes I wonder if Krishna might have sent me to ISKCON back in 1978 so decades later, through my Hare Krishna history books, I could help people recover from the abuse they experienced while they were members of the ISKCON cult. Hare Krishna!
Epilogue
Krishna devotees still do the pick today. They make millions of dollars, but not for the Krishna temples; they do it to support themselves and their families. One of my friends, a former New Vrindaban resident who goes by the pseudonym Krishna dasa, explained how he collected $250,000 in three years selling MAGA hats at Trump rallies, NASCAR races and country music festivals:
I grew up at New Vrindaban. I first went out on the pick with Danakeli, who was the father of one of my classmates. I was fifteen years old. It was 1986 I believe. We did bumper stickers.
At that time, to encourage householders to go out on the pick, New Vrindaban let them keep half of their collections; the other half was donated to the temple. I went out with many devotees: Nityo Swami, Sahadeva, PB’s brother Mahabuddhi, Jagannath Mishra, Devananda Swami, to name a few. During the school year I went out only on weekends, but in the summer I went out full time. I gave half my collections to New Vrindaban and I kept the other half. I bought my first car with money I raised on sankirtan: a used Honda Civic. I paid $500 for it. I sometimes used my car to travel to big picking events.
I stopped doing the pick in 2003, because I had moved to California and I was making good money selling weed. In November 2016, recreational marijuana became legal in California when voters approved Proposition 64. This law legalized the possession, cultivation, and use of cannabis for adults 21 years and older, and established a comprehensive regulatory and taxation system for commercial cannabis activities. For twenty years, I supported my family by my marijuana business. But in 2023 I lost my business and didn’t have any cash. All my money was invested in my house. I got behind on my mortgage payments and I was worried about foreclosure.
I knew other devotees who were making good money still, on the pick. They were making tons of money selling MAGA hats at Trump rallies, NASCAR races and country music festivals. People who attend these events are the same people who love Trump. I decided to give it a try. My friends told me where to buy the hats. They were high-quality hats, not cheap stuff. I paid $3.00 per hat. I sold thousands of hats for $25.00 each. Each day on the MAGA Hat Pick I’d make between two and three thousand dollars.
Make America Great Again.
I’d fly to a big event and rent a car. Then I’d work the parking lots as people arrived for the event. At Trump rallies we also worked the queue. Thousands of people in lines waiting to pass through security. I’d use the Citation Line and show them the hat. I’d say a portion of the profits goes to charity. Hardly anyone ever asked me what was the charity. They just loved the hats. I also sold stickers. I even designed one sticker myself and contracted a printer to make me thousands of stickers. If a person didn’t want to purchase a hat for $25.00, they might purchase a Trump sticker for $5.00.
A bumper sticker designed by Krishna dasa with an image of President Donald Trump giving the finger to 20-year-old Thomas Matthew Crooks, who fired eight rounds from an AR-15–style rifle from a rooftop in an attempt to assassinate the president at a campaign rally in Butler, Pennsylvania, on July 13, 2024.
I’d say there were about thirty of us, all devotees, working these big events. We were like a brotherhood. We’d share expenses for hotel rooms, auto rentals, etc. Then after the event, we’d fly back to our respective cities.
These people who attend these events have been hit up for years. For decades even. At first I thought a person would only give once, and then pass on it. But no. These people give and give and give and give, over and over again. They are good people. They want to help less fortunate people. They may not be the smartest people, they might have low IQs, but they are good people.
I figure if the president of the United States can take advantage of these well-meaning, but stupid people, so can I. So many times, I’ve hit up a group of people, and they are hesitant to give. Then one person in the crowd says, “Yeah, I’ve given before to these guys. They’re good people.” And then EVERYBODY buys a hat or a sticker. They WANT to believe that my charity is legitimate. They DON’T WANT to believe that they have been cheated. That would be too painful to acknowledge. They willingly put blinders over their eyes. And they will go on for the rest of their lives giving money to us at events. “Oh, you guys again! Yeah, I’ll buy another sticker.”
In three years, I made $250,000 tax-free dollars on the Trump Pick. I paid for my house. I'm back in the black. Thanks to all the Trump supporters. Sometimes I think that we Hare Krishna devotees got Trump elected. We were always out there promoting him, and making money for ourselves at the same time.
Hrishikesh, you say you’re calling your book, “On the Pick.” I think you should give it the title, “You’ve Been Picked.” Millions of people got picked by us Krishna devotees, and also by the president of the United States.
Krishna dasa (Pseudonym)
June 19, 2026.
Endnotes
This arrangement was approved by Prabhupada, who wrote, “Concerning the outhouses, if they are not approved, then you can have a septic tank, or pass stool in the open field. I was doing that. I never liked to go to the nonsense toilet so I was going in the field.”—Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, letter to Kirtanananda (March 23, 1976).
4. Martin Lyons (Narasimha Guru), homage in Bhaktipada’s Vyasa Puja book, p 14 (September 5, 1988). 5. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, Morning walk, Mayapur (April 4, 1975). 12. Christina Marie Mills (Pradhana Gopika), Before the Federal Grand Jury (November 19, 1986), 23. 13. George Myers (Jalakolahali), conversation with the author at New Vrindaban (August 24, 2008). 15. West 57th Street, a CBS television show (c. December 1986). 16. West 57th Street, a CBS television show (c. December 1986). 17. Keith Gordon Ham (Kirtanananda Swami), cited in Holy Cow! Swami. 18. Stephen Guarino (Satsvarupa dasa Goswami), “Selected Writings.” 19. Dennis Gorrick (Dharmatma), cited in Trial Transcript II, Day IV (March 14, 1991), 869. 20. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, letter to William Berke (Bali Mardan) (December 31, 1972). 21. Dennis Gorrick (Dharmatma), cited in Trial Transcript 2, Day Four (March 14, 1991), 869-870. 22. An Indian crore is equal to 100 lakh or 10 million. 23. Suresvara, “Memories and Miracles,” Brijabasi Spirit, Vol. 4, No. 6 (September 1977), 12. 25. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, letter to Ranadhir (September 3, 1971). 27.Anonymous, typewritten manuscript in the Swami Bhaktipada Archives. 28. Jauvana, “A Lila Without the Amrita” (accessed March 25, 2014). 29. Riech, Robert, Reason: Why Liberals Will Win the Battle for America, pp. 13-14. 30. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, darshan at New Vrindaban (June 9, 1969) 31. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, letter to Robert F. Corens (Rupanuga) (November 13, 1970) 32. Dennis Gorrick (Dharmatma), telephone conversation with the author (August 26, 2003). 33. “Sankirtan Party,” Brijabasi Spirit, Vol. 1, No. 9 (June 23, 1974), 11. 34. Dennis Gorrick (Dharmatma), “SKP,” Brijabasi Spirit, Vol. 1, No. 12 (July 14, 1974), 12. 35. Kirtanananda Swami, letter to Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada (June 6, 1975). 36. Kirtanananda Swami, letter to Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada (June 6, 1975).
37. E. Burke Rochford, Jr., “Airports, Conflict, and Change in the Hare Krishna Movement,” 274. 38. Dennis Gorrick (Dharmatma), cited in Trial Transcript II, Day IV (March 14, 1991), 868. 39. Dennis Gorrick (Dharmatma), cited in Trial Transcript II, Day IV (March 14, 1991), 869. 47. West 57th. 48. West 57th. 49. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, Srimad-bhagavatam, 7.13.36, purport. 50. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, lecture on Bhagavad-gita, 2.17, in Mexico (February 17, 1975). 52. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, lecture on Bhagavad-gita, 5.3-7, in New York (August 26, 1966). 53. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, letter to Hans Kary (Hansadutta) (October 13, 1967). 54. Dennis Gorrick (Dharmatma), cited in Trial Transcript 2, Day Four (March 14, 1991), 928. 55. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, room conversation, Honolulu (May 5, 1976). 56. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, Bhagavad-gita 10.36, purport. 57. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, Srimad-bhagavatam, 1.13.37, translation and purport. 60. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada (Garden conversation, June 10, 1976, Los Angeles) 65. “A Final Comment,” New Vrindaban News (April 24, 1985), 4. 67. Ronald Nay (Gopinath), “Diary” (February 29, 1984). 68. Ronald Nay (Gopinath), “Diary” (March 2, 1984). 70. Arthur Villa (Kuladri), cited in Trial Transcript 2, Day Three (March 13, 1991), 492. 1981—$2,000,000
Total sankirtan revenue from 1981-85: $17,871,000. 77. Howard Fawley (Dulal Chandra), cited in Trial Transcript 2, Day Two (March 12, 1991), 351. 80. Tapahpunja Swami, “Chediraja Maharaja—The Lion-Hearted One,” As It Is, No. 2 (c. March 1985). 81. Jagadananda Das, Nabadwip, Nadia District, West Bengal, Facebook comment (June 24, 2026). 82. Madhavananda Das Brssm, Portland, Oregon, Facebook comment (June 22, 2026). Mahamaya Devi dasi described her New Vrindaban marriage, “I felt upset when I learned that Kirtanananda Swami wanted me to marry Tribanga dasa, a Spiritual Sky salesman working Indiana, lured to New Vrindaban by promises of a wife, house, maha-prasadam [special foodstuffs offer directly to the deity] and whatever he wanted. . . . Although especially not wanting to marry him, I could see no way out. The next Sunday we were married at a New Vrindaban ‘flower ceremony,’ in which we exchanged flowers on the temple porch at Bahulaban [the devotee farm community on Limestone Road closest to route 250]. Everyone cheered and considered us married. We were given the Deities’ maha-prasadam afterward. The marriage went downhill from that point. . . . It was embarrassing to be married to this man. My unforgiving feelings are most accurately described by a crude expression I learned while growing up: I hated his guts. . . . After eight months of hell, married to Tribanga, I decided to leave him.”—Mahamaya Devi dasi, Srila Prabhupada Is Coming! (Holy Cow Books, Alachua, Florida: 2000), 97, 103. 86. “Hare Krishna Guru Visits Pakistan, Africa,” Back To Godhead (August 1982). 91. Choy Weng Hong (Chandra dasa), letter to Bhaktipada from Penang,
Malaysia (March 17, 1989). 92. Choy Weng Hong (Chandra dasa), telephone conversation with the author
(February 22, 2018).
1982—$2,436,000
1983—$3,857,000
1984—$4,106,000
1985—$5,472,000
| Back to: Gold, Guns and God, Vol. 4 |